


The Deep Field

by TheAstronomyMod



Series: The Deep Field Universe [1]
Category: Blur, BritPop (music), British Singers RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 119,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All your teenage dreams have come true, and it's turned into a bit of a nightmare" - Alex Jones, bassist, Slur</p><p>This sprawling epic was the centrepiece story of an ancient "Pop Music Fan Fiction" site called Entertain Me! way back in the mid-90s. It originally started as Blur fan fiction, and expanded to be a snapshot of the 90s indie music scene. After being (allegedly) threatened with lawsuit by certain unamused musicians who shall remain nameless, all of the band names were changed to ciphers - part of the fun of reading is trying to figure out who "Radioshack*" or "Jim and William Gallivant of Mirage**" or "AbSynth***" really were. It eventually became hard to tell the real bands from the made-up ones.</p><p>*Guessing these people is easy<br/>**A strange mixture of the Jesus and Mary Chain and Oasis<br/>***Duran Duran</p><p>We wanted to read and write original female characters who were not Mary-Sues, but who were as cool, as interesting, and as rock'n'roll as the boys we lusted after. In a pre-Spice Girls world, where we listened to Elastica and Lush and Huggy Bear and Stereolab, a band like The Charms really seemed possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Both Kinds Of Music

**Author's Note:**

> Some warnings apply: this is the world of Rock'N'Roll, there are drugs (copious quantities of legal and illegal drugs) and there is messy and unsafe sex and there are consequences of all these irresponsible behaviours.

 

"Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to play _both_ kinds of music for you." Leaning on the microphone stand, Beth surveyed the crowd with growing irritation. It was one in the morning and the audience, bored by four tedious support bands, were restless and disinterested. Most of them had been drinking since late afternoon, crowding round the bar without showing a flicker of interest in the four women onstage.

"Show us your tits!" shouted some wag at the back of the club, but Beth glared him into silence without even blinking her violet-blue eyes.

"Rock! _And_! ROLL!" screamed Beth and propelled herself into the air with a howl. Right on cue, Emma leaned over her guitar and let out an ear-shattering burst of pure noise, instantly obliterating all chances of conversation in the building. I turned to catch Maddie counting us in with four thwacks of her drumsticks, then slammed into action, attacking the strings of my bass as if it was a weapon.

Half my notes were wrong, but I was drunk, I didn't care. I jumped up and down, leaping on top of the drumkit, balancing on the kick drum for an instant, then fell off, righting myself a moment before hitting the ground. _Shit, I've just displayed my knickers to the entire audience._ I thought. _Shit, I hope I'm wearing knickers._  

Looking out into the crowd, I discovered that Beth had gone walkabout. She was climbing on the backs of people's chairs, stomping across their tables, singing into their faces and forcing them to pay attention. On a Friday night in the nastiest, seamiest, dirtiest bar in the East Village, she stood a pretty good chance of getting beaten up, but people loved it, surging towards her. No one was interested in the bar now, they all just wanted to crowd close, to try and touch the singing girl. Laughing maniacally, she danced back onto the stage and we slammed into the next song before they even had a chance to catch their breaths.

Our set was total a disaster, every song played too fast, the vocal harmonies never quite right, and I couldn't even hear our sample loop, but all people cared about was the energy. They were on their feet at the front now, dancing, chucking themselves about with total abandon to the rhythm that Maddie and I were pounding out. Dancers swivelled in time with the backbeat as if their hips were puppets, controlled by the movements of my fingers running up and down my bass frets. Memories, personalities dissolved in the infinite now of the perfect popsong, the loss of self, the loss of fear, caught in the communal moment, one with the music and the mob. This was what it was all about.

But it was all over so quickly. Did we really just play ten songs in twenty-five minutes? People crowded around as I tried to pack up my gear. "Great set!" someone shouted and I nodded, coiling my cables and throwing them into a bag before anyone could steal anything. "Oh my god, you guys _rawked_!" howled a voice in my ear, but I grabbed for my distortion pedal. My set list was already gone. Maddie had collected one from every show we'd ever played, but mine invariably disappeared before I'd even packed up.

Dashing into the tiny storeroom that served as "backstage," I stowed my bass and my gigbag safely out of sight before running back out front. "Where the fuck has Beth gone?" I demanded. "Who's gonna go talk to the bar manager? We need to get fucking paid."

"We're not getting paid," Emma shouted back. "There was no cover charge, so we did this for drink tickets."

She pressed a couple of tokens into my hand, but I stared at them disdainfully. "Jesus, these are only good for fucking beer. I'm not drinking Budweiser, oh no way. Where the fuck is Maddie?" 

Maddie had disappeared, I presumed to find her husband and their van, so I pushed my way towards the bar, hoping that I could just order a gin and tonic and get it before the bartender realised I only had a beer token. It was almost impossible to get through the mass of people, the place had become so crowded. Had there been this many people here when we went on? A sea of hands grabbed at me, patting me on the back, offering congratulations, but I just nodded my head and pushed my way through.

Fuck, it was Arthur. He might have been the cutest bartender in the East Village in his leather jeans and his ripped shirt, but he probably wouldn't let me get away with it. Still, couldn't hurt to try. "Gin and tonic?" I asked hopefully, holding the drink token out in front of me like an offering.

He shook his head. "No way, Kate. You know the rules..."

"Ah've goad et," said a voice at my elbow, followed by a hot, slightly sticky hand.

"What?" I hissed back uncomprehendingly, recoiling at the unexpected touch.

"Cannae buy yer a drenk?" Yeah, sure, buddy, pick a more original line. In Nineteen-Ninety-fucking-Six, do guys honestly think this kind of shitty pickup really works? "As a token of esteem. Ah loved yer band," he announced enthusiastically, trying to capture my attention. At least that's what I assumed he said, his Glaswegian accent was so thick.

"If you insist, dude," I shrugged, then grinned challengingly back at Arthur. Being in a band had its advantages sometimes. Ah yes, thank you, I mouthed as the drink magically appeared in front of me. I sipped at the gin and wondered how quickly I could escape conversation with the manic Scotsman without seeming rude.

"Yer were brrrrrilliant!" he repeated.

"Thanks." Yes, I'd love to have a half-hour conversation about exactly how brilliant my band was, with a maniac who would not let go his death-grip on my elbow. Being in a band had disadvantages, too, sometimes.

"Kate!" Suddenly Emma was beside me, burrowing underneath my arm to push the Scotsman out of the way, though she only came up to about his elbow. Ah, thank fuck, an easy means of escape. "I just spoke to Maddie. Carl's not gonna be here with the van for another two hours."

"Shit," I swore. I had no money and no way of getting home until Carl showed.

"Ah loved yer band," the man repeated, somewhat more forcefully. "Ah work ferra record company. Ah want to sign yer. Cannae buy yers all a roond of drenks or two?" Sure, he was from a record company. We got that all the time, it was the musical equivalent of 'come up and see my etchings.'

"That'll be four bucks," Arthur said to no one in particular. Scottish Dude dug in his wallet and pulled out a note, but as Arthur took it, he suddenly stopped and held it up to the light, so I glanced over. It was a hundred.

Emma and I exchanged glances. We were stone cold broke, and this man with a hundred dollar bill was offering to buy us all drinks. I smiled as charmingly as possible at him, then nodded. "Sure."

 

\-----

 

I woke with a blinding hangover, not knowing exactly where I was. All I knew was the phone was ringing. Not my phone, as I seemed to be lying on someone's couch. Beth's futon, to be exact, I discovered as I raised my head with the greatest of effort. I often crashed there after gigs so I didn't have to risk the long subway ride back to Queens late at night. 

"Christ, Beth, are you going to answer that?" I shouted. No reply. Cursing her ability to sleep through anything, I stumbled over to the phone and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Oh my god, Kate," Emma's voice burbled excitedly from the other end. How could she be so chirpy with a hangover? "Have you _looked_ at those contracts?"

"Contracts?" I stuttered. 

Slowly it was coming back to me. The Scottish man the night before. He'd heard us at a club a few months before, he had claimed as we gulped down his gin and tonics. The DJ, in the midst of a 48-hour ecstasy binge, had locked himself in the DJ booth with only one record. Ours. Apparently, he played Flavour Of The Week seventeen times in a row before finally being carried bodily from the club, still ranting about soul, and claiming to anyone that would listen that this song was the second coming of the Ronettes, Donna Summer and Debbie Harry all wrapped up in one seven inch record. "I woke up with your blasted song stuck in my head the next morning, and every morning for the next three weeks until I finally tracked down what it was," he had shrugged, as if this sort of thing happened to him every week. "It's taken me months to locate you, and I'm damned if I'm going to leave this city without signing you."

"Look at your contract!" Emma hissed down the phone, snapping me out of my daze and sending me spinning around the living room, trying to locate where I'd shoved the paper the previous night. There it was, stuffed into the bottom of my bass case.

I stared down at the signatures at the bottom. "Fuck. We signed a recording contract while completely plastered. Is that even legal?"

"Do you _see_ who it's with?" Emma yelped, her voice so shrill I held the phone away from my ear.

"Signatories for The Charms, Elizabeth Blair, Madeleine Cerbone, Kate Gordon and Emma Noguchi. Signatory for Destructive Records... Joe Forester," I droned, trying to make head or tail of the legalese involved. Then it hit me. "Oh my god. We've just signed to Destructive Records." Destructive Records, the trail-blazing barometer of indie cool which had been home to half the bands I'd idolised while growing up. "Oh my god," I repeated. "If I'd had the faintest clue _that_ was who we were talking to..."

"You'd have been too shit scared to even play the gig, let alone talk to Joe Forester afterwards," Emma giggled.

Joe Forester. He was as legendary as an A&R man as the bands that he had discovered. Mirage. Drive. The Gravity Bell. My Time Of Dying. We were on the same label a My Time Of fucking Dying. No wonder Emma was at such a hysterical pitch. Swallowing nervously, I rubbed my temples, hoping that the hangover would recede soon. I had had no idea what he looked like. Joe Forester had tried to sign my band, and I'd nearly blown him off, thinking it was a drunken pick-up attempt. "On my god." It was the only thing I seemed to know how to say. "We've signed to Destructive records... by _accident_?"

"Please get Beth out of bed, then both of you get dressed and head down to Life Café? Apparently we're meeting him for brunch in half an hour to discuss our plans," she begged.

 

\----- 

 

It all happened so fast it made our heads spin. One minute, we were a gang of luckless chancers drinking in dive bars on Avenue B, dreaming about the day we got a two-line preview in the Village Voice, and the next, The Charms were doing interviews with the NME. After years of slogging it out in the treadmill of New York City clubs, we hadn't hit the big-time, we had stumbled out drunkenly into the street, and it hit us. Like a double decker bus. Forget everything they tell you about hard work, we'd been working our asses off for years and never got anywhere. It was pure, unadulterated luck. 

Disbelieving but excited, we had bundled ourselves back into the studio where we'd cut the original single, and banged out a somewhat more competent version of the song. With the help of one of our friends who was studying film at NYU, we threw together a rough super-8 video clip satirising ourselves and some of our more photogenic friends as Noo Yawk Hipsters, and sent the whole thing over before they could change their minds, laughing all the way to the post office. Everything still felt completely unreal, like some sort of daydream we were about to snap out of at any minute. Even when we were approving artwork for the single and giggling as we posed for promotional photos, it still hadn't quite dawned on us that it was all really happening. Buying new guitars with our advance money? It was like being visited by the Rickenbacker fairy!

A month later, we found ourselves on a plane, headed for London. It felt odd, returning to the city of my birth after ten years in New York. If, after all, New York was the place you had to make it there before you could make it anywhere, perhaps this homecoming was the proof that I had actually finally made it. But it simply didn't feel real. We were scheduled to play a handful of gigs, talk to the press, and support the hell out of our first single, fully expecting to be nothing more than just the "Flavour Of The Week". No wonder we couldn't take it seriously, four nervous but excited young women stepping out into a hazy spring morning at Heathrow Airport, totally unprepared for how our lives were about to change.

From the moment we touched down, we were sucked into a whirlpool of motion. Joe Forester met us at our hotel, and put us in a taxi for super-stardom. Photos, interviews, important people to meet, radio and television appearances - everyone wanted a piece of the gum-chewing, wise-cracking, hard-drinking tough girls from New York City. 

Life became a surreal series of the same questions over and over again - after a few repetitions of "So how did you all meet?" and "Where did you get the name, The Charms?" our mischievous sides showed through and we started to improvise, playing off each other and telling a different series of lies to each journalist. It was absolutely stupid what we found we could get away with, but it became a game. After all, we'd been called the best band in the world and the saviours of music on the strength of one single and a drunken gig in a toilet! This had to be a joke, but we were the only ones laughing. Everyone around us was scribbling the stuff down faster than we could make it up. 

We smoked other people's cigarettes, we drank pints we never paid for, and we laughingly offered to beat up every other band in the charts. After waxing enthusiastic about lovely English beer and lovely English men, one interviewer cut in and asked didn't we perhaps have shows to play?

"Ah, details, details," I laughed. "We just want to get drunk and shag members of Slur!" It was the most outrageous thing I could think of to say. Slur were at that point the most popular band in the UK, dominating the singles chart and garnering accolades like 'best British band since the Beatles.' The idea of even being in the same room as them, let alone shagging any of them, it was utterly ludicrous, but the press, eager for any bit of gossip, gobbled it up.

"So which one do you fancy, then, Kate?" probed the journalist with a leer.

After a couple of pints, I was feeling bold. "Oh, the most important, most intelligent, sexiest member of the band..." 

"And that would be...?"

"The bassist, bien sur!" I giggled and the rest of the band exploded into disagreement. The interviewer was egging us on - so I laughed and swaggered on. "No, seriously, I'll be the Marianne to his Mick Jagger. I'll be the nude girl in the fur rug at his drugs bust. I wouldn't mind getting that Alex Jones alone on a desert island with a case of Mars Bars..."

It was absurd. But the NME printed it anyway! Interviews! What a giggle!

I mean, didn't they get it? Had they even listened to the lyrics, beyond the catchy chorus? We were laughing at them - that was what the song was about, a winking in-joke at the British music scene. How surreal was it, being interviewed in some swish studio up in Camden, looking out at the cider-drinkers on the canal, and just before before every link, Beth would lean forward, fix the camera with her sultry stare and announce "This is Beth from the Charms and you're watching MTV Buzz Bin" right before the monitors all switched to our video, and there would be the brightly spot-lit, highly made-up video Beth, walking down St Mark's Place in the East Village, singing 

" _We've done Buzz-Bin, we've done Peel,  
_ _Our personal stylists keep it real.  
_ _It's part of our master plan,  
_ _To sip champagne on a yacht like Duran Duran.  
_ _We're all fakers, we're all poseurs,  
_ _We don't make art, we make hamburgers,  
_ _You can rent me by the hour,  
_ _Pay me money, pay me power.  
_ _Our indie cred it a bit abused,  
_ _Now I'm modelling for Dazed and Confused,  
_ _But if you got a problem with the way I use it,  
_ _You can bitch about it on the Behind the Music  
_ _We're just the flavour of the week I hate to tell you but we're  
_ _Fifty-two varieties in line ahead of you  
_ _We're just the flavour of the week, now take a number take your seat  
_ _Hey we're the flavour of the week._ "

And then some po-faced trendy VJ in pre-faded 501s and white girl dreadlocks would ask us, dead-pan, if we ever had, really, drunk Champagne, on a yacht, with Duran Duran. And the four of us would have to try, very very hard, not to completely lose it laughing. I mean, really.

But after a week or two, even these games grew boring - I was dying to play live, but no... another dinner with a publicist at some frighteningly trendy restaurant. How the hell had we acquired a publicist? We didn't even have a manager yet. This seemed completely backwards - surely we should be playing live, to show people how good we were, rather than just talking about it endlessly in the music press. But this publicist and Joe Forester seemed to be buzzing about "controlling access" to us and "generating hype" so we assumed that they knew what they were talking about, and there we were in an over-priced eatery on Dean Street, talking about strategy and demographics and product shifting - what _was_ product shifting, anyway? It sounded vaguely painful - when I was dying to be sweating onstage in those venues in Camden I'd been reading about in the NME since I was a teenager.

"Look, we're releasing a single called _Flavour of the Week_ ," droned Joe Forester, but my mind was far away. "We can capitalise on the sort of attention that will bring to make _you_ the flavour of the week, but quite frankly, having heard the rest of your set, we think you have a great deal more potential, so we have to plan carefully to make sure your career doesn't _end_ after that week."

"Your live show is your secret weapon," agreed our publicist excitedly. "We want to whet the media's appetite, but we don't want to let the cat out of the bag too soon. Which is why we need to control the media's access to your performances until we've generated enough interest to create the requisite amount of hype, and propel your single into the charts..."

The conversation was barely generating enough interest to keep us awake, so I found my attention wandering around the room, playing "spot the celebrity" by glances and wordless exchanges with my bandmates. English celebrity was a whole new world to us, exciting and glamorous in a way we'd have been embarrassed to gawk back home in New York. Film and TV stars, we were bored with, but a B-list Britpop star could send Beth and Maddie into swooning fits.

"But we all know who Kate wants to meet" Emma whispered, needling me in the ribs. "I think I see him at the bar..." 

"Where?" I gasped, turning around like a sucker. They got me every time.

"Oh, that's right," laughed Joe Forester. "You fancy Alex Jones. You know, we belong to the same club - I could introduce you." 

"Leave me alone," I protested, blushing furiously.

Emma rolled her eyes, Maddie giggled, but Beth egged me on. "Come on - let's go!" Unable to resist, we piled into a cab and ventured over.

"Ooh, now this is more like it!" I gushed, settling down with a glass of brandy. _This_ was what I was expecting from a members only club - dark panelled walls, hunting prints, low lights and overstuffed leather chairs. My head was spinning from the alcohol, combining with the delayed effects of jet lag.

Everyone was teasing me now, ringing false alarms. "Hey, look - he's come in!" "Quick, look! By the bar!" 

After about the third time, I stopped believing them, except now Joe Forester was joining in. "Actually, he's playing snooker over there."

"Yeah, right. Pull the other one - it's got bells on it" I huffed, finishing my fourth glass of brandy.

"Fine. Don't believe me - but I'm serious," he shrugged. 

Slowly, I turned around, and sure enough, there was a tall, thin dark-haired man leaning over the snooker table with his back to me. "Go and say hi!" Beth urged. 

Without thinking, borne up on champagne bravado and giggles, I bounded over with every intention of tapping him on the shoulder and introducing myself to him, but halfway over, right around the time he turned and flashed a marvellous smile at his opponent, I lost my nerve. Standing by the edge of the pool table, I merely gawked at him, trying very hard not to stare.

"Hi" I announced in a very high squeak. His eyebrows raised expectantly over huge, soft brown eyes, he turned towards me, his wide, sensual lips parting as if he was about to speak. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, but it fell back into his face, a mahogany fringe cascading slowly down over cheekbones the size of dinner plates. As soon as his gaze met mine, every intelligent thought I'd ever had flew straight out of my head. 

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" he finally ventured. I shook my head, grinning stupidly. "Could you please not stand here, then? You're blocking my shot." His voice came as a complete shock, low and quiet, almost a whisper. 

"I'm sorry," I stuttered, backing off. God, he was terrifyingly handsome. Pulling an about face, I fled back to the safety of our table. After weeks of music journalists and industry lackeys kissing my ass, it was somewhat of a rude surprise to be dismissed.

"So what happened?" demanded Emma. "Did you lose your nerve? Did our band's resident boy crazy groupie magnet get scared?" she teased. 

"No..." I protested. "I didn't want to intrude." 

"He's looking at you," observed Beth. 

I glanced over my shoulder to see that he was, indeed, watching our table with an expression of detached interest. But as soon as he noticed me looking at him, he resumed a mask of studied boredom and turned away. I mean, honestly. What had I expected?

By the next day, the entire exchange was mercifully forgotten in the rush of preparation for our first UK gig. Excitement was high - I'd never been this nervous. The fabled Monarch turned out to be tiny, the upstairs of a Camden pub, only holding a few hundred people. We'd played much bigger venues in New York, but never with so much press coverage. As misguided as I'd thought our publicist had been, she was right. Advance copies of our single, combined with a good dose of rumour and hype, had stirred up a flurry of anticipation. 

Backstage, we were a mess. The bouncers were under strict instructions to let no one in except the band, but the tiny room still seemed to be crawling with people, chatting casually with Joe Forester. I sat in a corner, gripping a bottle of half-drunk champagne as if it were a pacifier, wishing that the butterflies in my stomach would please choose somewhere else to flutter. Why was I doing this? It was torture. The nerves, the anticipation, the desperate, sick feeling that I was going to explode or possibly throw up, that is if I could actually manage to choke down any food in the first place. I suffered through the support band, but I couldn't concentrate. If I stood up, I wanted to be sitting down, but if I sat down, I started jiggling and couldn't sit still. 

As I looked around the table, I realised that everyone was pretty much in the same state. Emma was hunched over in a ball, twirling strands of her hair until I thought she'd actually pull them out. Beth was swinging her arms in giant circles, limbering up and practising her breathing, a sure sign that she was terrified. Maddie seemed coolest, ever unflappable, until I realised that even she was tapping away, drumming compulsively on the wall she was leaning against.

But the moment the lights came up and we ambled out onto the stage, a wave of euphoria hit me. I wasn't drunk yet, but the bubbles were definitely going to my head. The sample loop for the first song started - I could see Maddie nodding her head in time to it, one headphone on, one headphone hanging loose, tapping her drumsticks together to count us in. Emma jumped up and down a few times, then burst into an explosion of noise, attacking her guitar with all the penned up excitement of the past few weeks. 

Leisurely, I toasted the audience with the remains of my champagne, picked up my bass and joined the rest of the band just in time to pick up the harmony on the chorus. The nervousness evaporated - I felt on top of the world. Beth was on top form, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats with her alternating sex kitten act and demented pogoing. Even Emma looked as if she was enjoying herself, no longer looking quite so much as if she was going to throw up with the stress, nudging her way up to her microphone and adding a third harmony to the mix. 

We were winning the crowd over - by the third song, they had closed the gap and were pressed up against the edge of the stage. I was flirting with death, climbing up onto the monitors and peering out past the lights. Fire regulations be damned, the tiny room was so packed with people that condensation was sweating from the ceiling. Faces lined every square inch of available space, behind and even on top of the bar, back through the exit and along the corridor. But the disconcerting part was that no-one _danced_. We thought we made the most insanely danceable music in the world, mixing pure bubblegum 60s pop with the hip-hop and disco that spilled out of every block of our hometown, but these people just _stared_. Like they were too afraid of making fools of themselves to ever cut loose and really just lose themselves in the music.

I never wanted it to end - song after song, it felt like we were building to a climax. Not even flubbed notes and off kilter vocals could throw us. Still jumping up and down, we ran off stage at the end of the set, cracked open another bottle of bubbly and argued about the encore, amazed that they were still calling for us five minutes later. The tiny backstage was crawling with people, and after a few glasses of complimentary champagne, I was feeling witty and quotable. I was having so much fun being chatted up by a gaggle of hopeful young men that I almost didn't want to go back onstage. People were all around me, shaking my hand, pressing me with drinks - I had to find the ladies room, but the club was too packed to make it the five feet to the door.

"Kate, come on! Now!" yelled Beth. Behind her, I could see the soundman, impatiently pointing at his watch. Christ, it was only ten to eleven! Back in New York, the first support band would barely have got started.

One more song, and we left them panting. I heard rumours years later that we only played such a short set because we only knew six songs, but the truth was, we'd run so late that the club manager was threatening to cut the power if we didn't get off the stage. All around us, chaos raged. Our roadie was trying to haul our rented amps off the stage, and I tried to help out, but our publicist collared me and almost literally threw me at some music journalist. Swallowing champagne, I tried to make sense, but the more ridiculous my words came out, the more he laughed. Someone shouted at me that there was a party somewhere after the show, and we bundled into a taxi, shepherded along by Joe Forester. Emma was hanging out of the window, shouting at passers by in a brassily out of place Queens accent. Maddie was falling asleep in the front seat while Beth and I tried very hard not to spill champagne all over ourselves. We seemed to have picked two or three other people along the way somewhere to pay for the taxi, but I couldn't bring myself to care what their names were.

Stumbling out of the cab, we clung to each other as we made our way into our party. A few minutes later, I found myself flirting outrageously with another gaggle of young men at the bar. Someone was kissing my hand - I merely laughed as they sucked my fingers. A week later, I would find out from a gossip column that it was Mark from Drive. My teenage hero. Eeeeeeeeep! 

"Is this really happening?" I heard myself asking. 

"Don't worry, you won't remember any of it in the morning" someone replied. There was another bottle of champagne, another taxi ride, and then the next thing I knew, I was back in my hotel room, pounding on a locked bathroom door. I threw up in the wastepaper bin then crawled into the cupboard to sleep. Look, Ma, I'm a pop star.

 

\-----

 

Day slid into day somewhere between hung over and drunk. We had started out as complete no ones, an unknown band releasing our first record, but our publicist had done her job, as the papers were producing glowing reviews. The NME declared us the single of the week, though what I didn't understand was why every live review seemed to begin with a surprised assertion that we actually played instruments on stage - apparently everyone had taken us to be a vocal group due to the video. 

We were the music press's darlings, our faces plastered all over the magazines, so we took turns reading each other articles and laughing hysterically. It was truly mind boggling to see the way our personalities translated into the media, until it felt disconcertingly like we were reading a one dimensional cartoon of ourselves. Except each article seemed to present a different cartoon; our little charades had yielded hysterical results. 

"It's pure fabrication," Beth laughed, staring at a drawing of us on the cover of the Guardian Guide. She was depicted as a sultry, pouting vixen with a mane of auburn hair, Emma was a crusty cartoon punk, all spiky blue-streaked hair and a can of Tenant's Super, I was a ditzy blonde hippie chick in a paisley dress clutching a spliff and a Can record, and Maddie was a cheesy raver in a day-glo shirt and an Adidas tracksuit. "I mean, does this look anything like us?"

The rest of us were laughing too hard to answer.

The work schedule was maddening - we had barely ten minutes to ourselves apart from the few hours of sleep we caught between promotional work. We'd been so busy that I'd found it hard to believe that we'd been in the country less than a week. Although we weren't playing a proper tour, we'd play a sell-out show in Manchester one night and then another the next night in Brighton, driving out in the afternoon, cramped in the back of a transit van, then driving back to London at some ungodly hour because we'd have a photo shoot with The Face early the next morning. All of us were surviving on three hours of sleep a night, eating nothing but service station cheese and onion pasties, to which we'd become totally addicted.

Finally, we made a mad dash for freedom, at least for a short while, waking early and running out of the hotel before anyone had a chance to collar us and shepherd us to another appointment. Shrieking with spontaneous laughter and pure joy, four girls leapt on a bus and tore off towards Oxford Street. At Tottenham Court Road, we spilled off the bus, giggling and whooping, drunk on freedom and excitement, looking around us at the billboards and the shops, arguing over where we'd stop first.

"Boots!" demanded Beth. "I need new make-up!"

"No, Top Shop!" squeaked Maddie. "I've run out of clothes."

"Fuck that," snorted Emma. "Marks and Spencers. We all need fresh socks or I'm not getting in another van with you lot."

"Hey!" I protested, grabbing my bandmates by the elbows and stopping them in their tracks. "Isn't there something we've forgotten to do?"

"What?" Three pairs of eyes looked at me blankly until I jerked my head towards the massive record shop on the corner.

"I wonder if they have our single," I wondered, my eyes huge with anticipation as we rushed over, trying not to attract any attention but burbling with excitement as we stalked up and down the aisles. For a moment, I actually hoped that someone would recognise us, but then I realised that these four dirty, dishevelled, bedraggled girls in sunglasses and dirty jeans bore about as much resemblance to the glamorous rock chicks on the cover of our single as sparrows did peacocks.

I wandered round, distracted by the loud music and the bright lights and the rows and rows of brightly coloured CDs. If there was any place in the world as enticingly wonderful as a record shop, I'd yet to discover it. Wow! Rare Slur singles I'd never even seen before, even on import! 12 inch vinyl with extended remixes and B-sides I didn't recognise!

Suddenly, there was a whoop from Maddie, sensibly looking under the C section. "I've found one!" I looked over to see her holding one of our singles up triumphantly. None of us had actually seen one in the flesh. It was one thing to hear the masters and look at the artwork on a computer screen, but to see the actual object, finished and displayed for sale in a record store with a sticker proclaiming "Chart Single: £1.99" was final, ultimate proof that it was actually happening.

"Let me see, let me see!" Emma insisted, trying to seize it, but Maddie held it out of reach.

"Fuck off, I'm buying this to send to my mum!"

"Do they have any others?" Beth demanded, digging through the CDs in the rack. "What, they only have two? That's an outrage!"

"No, it's good!" I pointed out. "It means that people have been _buying_ them!"

"Put it back, then," Emma hissed.

"No, put it at the front, where people will see it," Beth directed, moving the single to the end, so that our eyes winked enticingly at customers as they walked by. All four of us stood back to admire her handiwork, then moved towards the registers, squabbling over which of us was going to buy the CD that Maddie was holding.

"Eeeeeep!" Maddie suddenly ejected as we rounded the corner, and let go of the disk that Emma was still trying to tug away from her. Our eyes followed hers, and came to rest on a listening booth, complete with an entire rack of our single.

Forgetting decorum entirely, we ran over and gaped at it. Emma immediately picked up the headphones and listened to it, despite the fact that at the previous night's soundcheck she'd insisted that she never wanted to hear the bloody song ever again. Maddie picked up another three copies for her husband and her sister and her grandmother, she explained guiltily. Beth stared intently at the rack for a few minutes as if counting, glanced at the rack next to it, then grinned. "Well, I'm pleased to report we've sold more than The Mono-fucking-Phonics."

It seemed the hectic pace was paying off - when the mid-week reports came in, we were on the charts. If sales held steady at the weekend, we were in like flint, our record company rang us to tell us, and we celebrated by jumping up and down on our hotel beds and shrieking until our neighbours complained.

We were in fine moods when the actual charts came out. Number Twenty-Eight. OK, maybe we were slightly secretly disappointed that we weren't Number One, or even Top Ten, but to hit the Top Forty with a debut single, well, it was an accomplishment. Or so we told ourselves. Our record company was beside themselves with pleasure, and threw us a "do" to celebrate our chart debut. 

Giggly and drunk, we stumbled in, misbehaving like little girls let loose at a grown-ups party. Every time I turned around, someone was pressing another drink into my hand. If I'd been sober, I would have been completely star-struck, but it seemed completely natural to be surrounded by people whose faces I knew only from magazines. For the first time in my life, everyone laughed at my stupid jokes, told me how clever my bizarre theories were, bought me drinks and told me I was marvellous. Christ, if this was what we got for Number Twenty-Eight, I wondered what sort of a party we'd have got for Number One. Hell, I could get used to this... 

And then someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, Kate - I want to introduce you to someone..." I followed without asking as my new best friend barged into the midst of a conversation. "Kate, this is Alex..." 

I turned around and stared straight into those overly wide brown eyes. "Why are you introducing me to this drunk?" he whispered, and my heart plummeted like a stone. In a split second, I was no longer the super-suave nouveau pop star on top of the world, I was now a spotty, misfit fifth former with a crush on the captain of the football team.

"Kate's a fan of yours..." my new best friend continued. 

 _Oh shut up..._ I thought, _please shut up_. Alex looked pained, but pumped my hand nevertheless, with the practiced but meaningless charm of someone who was pleasant to people for a living. "Lovely to meet you..." he lied through his teeth, though he was already looking the other way.

"I'll leave you guys alone - I'm sure you have a lot to discuss..." continued the interloper with a wink as he dashed off again, suddenly losing his nerve.

"I'm sorry, I'm so dreadfully sorry... there's been a mistake" I blurted out as soon as he was out of earshot. Alex was avoiding my gaze, looking around nervously as if trying to spot a way out. "Would you like a drink?" I offered. 

"Got one, thanks" replied Alex. 

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you." I realised with a start that I had interrupted his conversation, and that he was looking around for the person that he'd previously been chatting to. "Oh, crap... they've thrown us this huge party and I don't know a person here, even though everyone seems to know who I am. But that's what parties like this are for, isn't it? I don't suppose it matters terribly much as I'm already too drunk to care." I found myself babbling nervously. 

"This is your party?" At least I had piqued his interest now. "What was your name again?" 

"Kate. Kate Gordon. Actually, Katharine. With a K," I stuttered with every last ounce of dignity I could muster under the circumstances. I was not so drunk that I couldn't remember my own name. I was not. Something about his very presence was rearranging the molecules of my brain so that the neurons did not quite align.

"Wait, I know who you are." he laughed, a spark of recognition suddenly lighting his eyes. "You're that mad American bird who fancies me!"

I cringed with embarrassment. This was not turning out the way I'd wanted. "Oh, god - that..." I whimpered. "For a start, I'm not actually American, I was born in North London. And as to the rest... Christ, you know how the press is. I'm surprised they don't have me sleeping with you, not to mention half of London already."

That finally elicited a smile from him. "Are you sure we haven't? I mean, you know about that drinking problem the tabloids have had me develop. Perhaps we already did and I just don't remember it." Was he flirting? Serious? Deciding that it was a joke, I giggled nervously. He grinned and broke into a laugh. 

Something seemed to have eased between us, so I ventured a shy smile. "Look, I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation. I'm sorry my new best friend was so discourteous in introducing us."

Suddenly, his face shifted again, to a half wistful, half profoundly sad expression. "Look, you want to watch out for new best friends. Ask yourself, when you meet people, if they want to be around you because of who you are, or because of what you are."

"Is that why you're always so rude to strangers like me, then?" I blurted out, then grew suddenly embarrassed, seeing myself the way he must be seeing me, a starstruck neophyte trying desperately to shag her way to fame. _No, that wasn't what I was at all_ , I wanted to protest, then realised how futile it was. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine what you must think of me. We were just having a laugh, you know how it is. It was never meant to be at your expense."

He smiled painfully. Rude. I could see the sting echoing in his eyes, but then he took a sip of his drink and shook it off as if he were shaking his hair out of his eyes. "It's alright," he whispered eventually. "It's quite flattering, actually, to be honest."

"So you don't mind?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," he chuckled, raising one eyebrow at me.

"Look, let's just forget about it," I winced.

He nodded, then extended his hand. I stared at it for a moment, then realised that he meant for me to shake it. Tentatively, I complied, distracted by the warmth of his palm against mine. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Katharine With A K. Congratulations again on the single." Shaking his head but still smiling, he walked away, none too steady on his feet. 

I excused myself from the party early and caught a cab back to the hotel, disturbed by the entire encounter. The mood of the evening had dissipated into a cloud of maudlin self pity. Had he been mocking me? God, what a fool I'd been to joke in the press like that. There went any chance of his every taking me seriously. Did anyone take me seriously? Digging in my bag, I found the Guide and stared at the cover. Stupid dippy, trippy, hippy chick.


	2. I Know Who You Are

"I guess I've quit my job," Beth sighed, as we gathered in our hotel room to toast our super-extended "vacation." Sales of the first single had been so promising that Destructive had booked us into a London studio to record a follow-up.

"Job?" I laughed. "Did I have one of those?"

"Not any more, that's for sure!" 

The only person who did not share the jovial mood was Maddie, whining about Carl, the husband she'd left in New York. Nobody else in the band had blinked twice about picking up and leaving home. I loved living in a hotel, calling out for room service and never worrying about the tab. We had an all-expenses paid party, right in the centre of London, a few blocks walk from the markets of Camden or the gentle green slopes of Primrose Hill, but Maddie was starting to worry. 

"Has anyone actually looked at our contracts?" she ruminated out loud. "Are we going to have to pay for this at any point?" 

"Pay?" laughed Emma. " _We_ get paid to do this now!" 

"No, seriously  - who's going to pick up the tab for all this? Who pays for the hotel? And what about studio time?" Maddie continued. "This is what ultimately wrecked my husband's band! They blew their entire advance on crap, and were left with a six-figure tab for the studio when their deal fell through. His old bandmate Rob is still working off their share of the debt!"

"Look, we are not the Jesus Sugarpussy, we are not going to take two years to record an album, and we are not dealing with some money-grubbing major label who are going to stick us with the tab, so stop complaining," Emma finally grumbled.

"I'm not complaining! This is my dream come true! Someone else pays for us to go into the studio now!" I protested. "Speaking of which, when do we start?" 

All around the room, there were blank expressions. The atmosphere in the room grew heavier. It was only just starting to dawn on us that we had no control over our lives. Our schedule was managed by someone else now - we did no planning. We just showed up when we were told to, went where we were told to and did what we were told to. I was confused; we all were. Wasn't there someone supposed to be in charge of all this? Joe Forester seemed to have disappeared, chasing off to Iceland to sign a new band. Sessions were booked to record a second single, and no one had seen fit to tell us until a taxi was waiting downstairs.

Being in a real recording studio was a bizarre experience. We'd recorded our first few songs in a friend's basement rehearsal space, practically live, overdubbing only the vocals. But now we were expected to record in shifts, drums first, then bass, then everything else added on in layers. Without the dynamics of playing live, we were disoriented and confused. How were Maddie and I supposed to get the right the right timing, without looking at each other while we played? How was Emma supposed to get the guitar riffs right, without Beth's vocals to play off? And a ProTools synch track? What the hell was a ProTools synch track? Maddie always just set the samples off and we played along the best we could.

Poor Maddie was taking it like a pro, bashing away at the same drum for twenty minutes while sound engineers ran around it, mic-ing it from every angle. I curled up in a corner with a book, waiting my turn as Beth and Emma fussed with our sample loop, trying to get it to match the mysterious click track. Something was not right - nothing was synching up - and reprogramming the damn sampler was going to take forever. After a few hours, it began to look more and more like we were going to be there all night. 

"Do you have any coffee?" I asked hopefully.

"In the kitchen," replied the frazzled engineer. 

A thorough search revealed nothing but an empty jar of instant coffee, some teabags and a kettle. Curse England and their instant coffee. Ten years in New York and I'd got used to proper coffee. "Looks like I'm making a grocery run... does anyone want anything?" I called, and tried to run out before anyone could demand anything, but everyone wanted crisps, cookies, and every conceivable kind of junk food. Muttering, I asked for directions to the nearest shop and headed out in search of a Tesco's. 

Actually, being in a supermarket was enjoyable in a surreal, hyper-normal way. It was the closest thing to real life I'd experienced since coming to England. Grabbing a shopping cart, I whisked through the aisles in blessed anonymity for the first time in ages, giggling over the fruit displays. After weeks of frenzied activity, it was soothing to just lose myself in something so reassuringly banal. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to me as I shuffled down the sweets aisle, singing along with the muzak. Or so I thought... after a few minutes I realised someone was watching me.

At the end of the aisle stood a familiar shock of dark hair flopping over a bemused smirk. Without a word, he reached out towards me, holding up a bag of Mars Bars. "Looking for something, Katharine with a K?"

I blushed a deep red and giggled. "I'm sorry. Look, I've already apologised..." 

"I was just joking, actually," he shrugged, tossing them back onto the shelf.

I stared at him blankly. No, I refused to let this moment slip by in the same fashion as our last encounter, and forced myself to talk. "I'm sure you can understand - you spend your entire life preparing for fame, and plotting out exactly what you are going to say in your first interview, thinking of how witty and intelligent you're going to be, and what wry observations and erudite commentary you're going to make, and the moment arrives and your mind goes blank and you find yourself reduced to cretinous teenage hormonal outbursts, and of course, _that_ is what the press decides to print..." 

Alex peered at me curiously. "Did you even breathe during that sentence?"

I started, somewhat taken aback, distracted by the curve of his neck between his shoulder and his jawbone. "Erm... no," I giggled. For another minute, we stared at each other in silence, then I ploughed on. "We're recording near here, and they didn't have any coffee, so..." I held up my bag of coffee beans as proof. 

"How's it going?" he wondered.

"It's not going well. You know how it is, nothing is working, I've been sitting around for three hours already just listening to them soundcheck the drums, arguing whether the floor tom should go 'boom' or 'bomp' and we're probably going to be there all night at this point, even though I've got nothing to do, you know, just sitting around, listening to them muck about with the click track until three in the morning or whatever." Alex's face seemed glazed over with irritation and boredom. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling."

"No no, I'm sorry, I'm being rude again." He looked down at his feet for a minute, then tossed his mane out of his eyes and fixed me with an apologetic glance. "I suppose it's a bit like hearing about work on my day off. When you get to the point where you even dream about the music business, you know it's time to concentrate on the rest of your life. I've been doing my best to avoid the Pop scene."

I shrugged non-comittally, feeling like a piece of a puzzle had just fallen into place. So that explained the strange silences and lapses in our few conversations. "I guess I'm starting to understand how you feel. For the past few weeks, it really feels like we've been the eight legged Charms machine, that our personalities and lives have just been... subsumed by this creature that we become when we're together. When things in the studio get so intense that even running away for ten minutes to buy groceries seems like a relaxing reality check, well..." Alex said nothing, but looked extremely bemused, as if he was enjoying watching me squirm. "Anyway, I should go. Even though they obviously bloody well don't need me at all this afternoon, they're, erm, probably wondering where the hell I've got to, or something."

As I started to shuffle away, Alex cleared his throat, and shifted his weight from foot to foot like a nervous horse. "Fancy a drink?" 

"What?" I stuttered, afraid I'd heard incorrectly. 

"A drink. As you said, you need a break."

"With you?" I blurted out stupidly. He made an exaggerated gesture of looking around him as if to say _there's no one else here_. "I dunno... though I doubt we'll get to the bass tracks tonight..." 

"It's just down the road," he encouraged. "Come on... I'm buying." 

That was the deciding factor. Ignoring the responsible little voice in my head that told me to go back to the studio and be responsible, I found myself paying for my groceries and following him down the road, swinging my bag joyfully. 

We stopped by a crowded bar while Alex stuck his head in. "No tables open - let's just go upstairs then," he announced. 

For a moment, I thought that he meant we were going to an upstairs bar, but as he dashed outside, strode round the corner and fiddled with a set of keys, I realised that I was being invited back to his _flat_. I grinned, barely able to stifle my giggle of excitement as I climbed the stairs. His flat was much smaller than I'd expected, crammed with books and old newspapers. The floor was littered with dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. Not a posh, pop star pad with designer furnishings and a 180 degree view of the Thames after all, just a familiar, reassuringly normal and almost studenty flat.

"Sorry the place is such a tip," he apologised, hastily attempting to tidy. "I had a few friends over last night." 

"A few..?" I observed. "It looks like you brought the entire pub home with you!" 

"Perhaps I did," he sighed. "What are you drinking?" he asked, attempting to pick up some of the empty glasses and retreating to another room. 

I weighed the question carefully. "Oh, what the hell... Gin and Tonic!" 

"Sorry, no gin," he called from the kitchen. 

"Brandy?"

"No brandy," came back the reply. Everything I could think to ask for, he seemed to be out of. 

"Well, what the hell do you have?" I shot back. For a few minutes there was silence from the kitchen except for the opening and slamming of the refrigerator and a few closet doors. Left to myself, I examined the apartment more carefully. Apart from a few mismatched chairs, cluttered bookshelves and some Swedish semi-disposable tables, the only furniture in the room was an upright piano over by the windows. Every horizontal surface seemed to be covered in rubbish; even the walls were a hodgepodge of art prints, posters and clippings stapled up in an apparently random arrangement. A chart of the solar system hung between a London Bus map and a Tibetan mandala. 

After a few minutes, he emerged with a bottle of wine. "This is left over from Christmas, I think..." 

I stood up abruptly, caught going through his bookshelves, impressed by his wildly varied taste in literature. Reprints of obscure medieval tracts were stuffed in next to 19th century French poets. 

"What are you doing with pamphlets on the Rosicrucians?" I demanded. 

"Oh, I love this stuff," laughed Alex, fussing with the corkscrew. "This current millennial paranoia is nothing new. Everyone's trying to blame some mysterious entity for random events." 

"Fin de mille madness" I agreed, glad to finally find a topic of common interest. "Last century it was Spiritualism and rapping ghosts, now it's aliens. Government conspiracies behind every bush. It's simply easier for people to accept that some big, evil, all-powerful entity is in control of seemingly random events than to accept that they are truly powerless over their own destinies and their own lives. Hell, if one person can truly assassinate a president, whose life is safe?" Alex was looking at me somewhat strangely, pausing as he was about to pour the wine. "I'm sorry; I'm babbling again." 

"No, please. Go on," assured Alex. "I never thought of it that way. So you deny that there was anything strange about the Kennedy assassination?" 

"No, I'm not saying that," I countered. "There was obviously more going on than the government admitted, but I think that what they were afraid to admit was that they didn't have the faintest clue what was truly going on." 

"Oh, come off it. One lone madman with a gun..." 

"No, think about it!" I interjected. "How did World War One start? One lone madman with a gun! And one completely random event triggered a whole series of world-altering events." 

He looked at me with something that almost resembled respect as he handed me my wine glass. "OK... point taken. But World War One had a hell of a lot more causes at the root of it." 

"As did the Kennedy assassination, I'm sure." I tossed back. 

"So who do you really think is in control?" he probed teasingly.

"Pardon?" 

"Come on, who's your favourite scapegoat. The Bilderberger Group? The Trilateral Commission? The Illuminati?" I couldn't work out if he was serious, or just baiting me, but his smile was charming, one eyebrow raised with interest.

"Oh, all right... well, I've heard that the conflicting rumours that the greatest hoax that the Illuminati ever perpetuated was that they didn't exist - or that they _did_ exist. Or maybe the Masons? I've always been keen on them..." 

"Oh, load of bollocks that. Fraternal orders claiming secret knowledge..." he snorted. 

"But no," I protested. "See, when they started, back in the Middle Ages, they really did have secret knowledge - the principles of geometry and architecture. In order to assemble the skilled workers needed to design and construct cathedrals and castles, Masons were freed from the shackles of the feudal system," I rattled on. "Hence the secret signs to recognise one another, so not just anyone could run away to join the circus, as it were..."

Alex was grinning a mischevious smile that split his face right down the middle, revealing a boyish side to that intimidatingly classical profile. "Is there anything you don't know?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oh god, shut up, Kate, you utter know-it-all.

"Here, have you ever seen one of these?" he asked proudly, producing another book from the shelf. "A know-it-all like you will appreciate this."

I gingerly opened the cracked leather to find one of those 19th Century facts-about-everything illustrated books. "Oh, this is beautiful..." I gushed. 

"I love these things... I collect them, you know. Every new city I go to, I scout out the second hand book stores for things like this. The collected sum total of the world's knowledge, in hardback form. Astonishing how compact it used to be. When knowledge was still at the point where one man could know all of mathematics. Did you see their section on science? It's downright comical!" He declared proudly. "Wait, I've got more of them. Hang on, look at this - it's a French review of the 1900 World's Fair in Paris..." 

"I don't speak French, apart from a few filthy phrases I picked up to horrify the nuns with," I confessed. 

"Really? Such as?" he prodded, his eyes sparkling with an evil glint. 

"I'm not going to tell you," I flipped back, burying my face in one of the books to avoid showing my blush. 

"So Kate went to a Convent School?" he teased. "You know what they say about convent school girls." 

"Yeah, we're all either sex starved nymphomaniacs or Latin-quoting bookworms!" 

"And which sort are you?"

"De gustibus non disputandum est..." 

"Ooh!" he exclaimed. "I love it when you speak Latin to me!" 

We spent most of the afternoon sitting on the floor in front of his bookcase, as he proudly showed off his treasures. Soon, I had three or four books open on my lap and piles more around me. Somewhere into my second glass of wine, the phone rang and Alex got up and excused himself to answer it. As he chatted with the person on the other end, it suddenly sank in where I was and who I was with. What the hell was I doing, sitting on Alex Jones' rug, drinking his wine and avoiding obvious flirtations? One glance from him, and I had run off for the afternoon, dodging all my responsibilities, letting down my band mates. With a heavy heart, I pushed all of the books off my lap and slowly stood up. 

"Alex..."

"Just a moment..." Holding the phone against his shoulder, he looked up at me. "What's up?" 

"Alex, I have to go."

"Wait, wait, wait... Can I call you back, Damien?" Hanging up the phone, he followed me. "You only just got here..." he protested, seemingly unwilling to let me leave. "I have another bottle of wine..."

"I'm supposed to be in the studio right now." 

Suddenly, Alex's face clouded over and he stepped back, trying very hard to resume his expression of detached apathy as he lit another cigarette. "Well. Kate. It was good to see you again."

"And you." The two of us stared at each other, the hope in our eyes clouded by our veneers of cool. I desperately wanted to ask when I could see him again, but I didn't dare. I couldn't read the expression in his eyes, hoping that it was the same, but to afraid to ask. I clutched my bag of groceries, but hadn't moved towards the door. "I should be in the studio now," I repeated dumbly.

"Oh, well. Don't let me keep you, then." 

"Hey, you'll have to show me the rest of your Victorian scientific misinformation some time..." I suggested, trying to recapture our earlier playful mood, but it was if a door had closed, and Alex was on the other side of it.

"Yeah, another time," he shrugged.

I moved towards the door, then moved back, studying him carefully. "Hey, we're playing a gig on Saturday, I'll put you on the guest list if you fancy coming."

There was a genuine flicker of interest across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a pained expression. "Sorry, I can't. I've agreed to host a party on Saturday." We stared at each other for a minute, frustrated by the seeming impasse. Alex straightened. He paused for a second, as if thinking, then added. "Come to the party. You know where I live... You could stop by after your gig?" 

I grinned like a teenage who had just been invited to the prom. "I'd like that. I'll see you soon, yeah?" Skipping like a child, I ran down the stairs and out onto the street before he could change his mind, mentally marking the address as I headed back to the studio. Funny, I didn't remember it being this close as we were walking over. Then again, with Alex chattering pleasantly beside me, I hadn't noticed much of anything around me. 

Sliding back into the studio, I had a hundred excuses for my tardiness prepared, only to discover that they had not made much progress during my hours of absence. 

"Did you do anything while I was gone?" I complained. 

"We changed the sample loop," Emma explained sheepishly. "Did you get my ice cream?" 

With a foolish grin, I smiled and shrugged. The ice cream was still sitting in a Tesco's bag, melting in the front room of Alex's flat.

"Oh, you're rubbish. What took you so long then?" Beth turned around and fixed me with a disappointed glare. "Did you just go to the fucking pub? You stink of alcohol..." 

"Wine, to be exact." I was hoping that someone would try to pry the information out of me, but no one was the slightest bit interested in anything except the mixing board and the sounds coming out of it. Even though I was bursting with news, I kept quiet. Soon, I too, found myself caught up in the intricacies of recording, losing myself in the music. After a few hours, the events of the afternoon were almost forgotten. The combination of intense concentration with the lengths of inactivity was incredibly tiring. Not to mention the dedication required to listen to the same three minutes and ten seconds over and over and over again until I thought I'd go mad if I heard the song one more time. Once we packed in for the night, none of us were the slightest bit interested in anything other than returning to the hotel and collapsing. 

 

\-----

 

We had two days to finish the single, to record and mix three tracks. Friday was our last day in the studio, and we barely managed to finish all three songs in a marathon all night mixing session that lasted until 8 in the morning, just giving us time to clear out our accumulated equipment before the next band arrived at 10. 

With our gear despatched towards the venue for our gig that night, the four of us found ourselves in a taxi winding through central London back to our hotel. Even at the weekend, traffic was beginning to pick up. When we found ourselves stopped in a snarl by the British Museum, Maddie slumped back and tried to sleep, but I found myself staring out the window at a second hand book store. An idea formed in my half-conscious brain as I saw the proprietor hanging out an "Open" sign. 

"Hey, guys, let me out here. I'll meet you back at the hotel!" I chirped as I climbed out of the cab and dashed for the shop. Surely enough, I managed to find something that would pique Alex's interest - a dog-eared but leather bound print of Manlius P. Hall's "Secret Teachings of All Ages." It was expensive, but thank god for credit cards. 

By the time I came out of the shop, the taxi had only moved about a block and a half before being stopped by another red light - good old London traffic. Clutching my precious package, I climbed back into the cab at the corner of Southampton Row, much to the astonishment of my bandmates. 

"What was that about?" demanded Emma.

I grinned sheepishly. "A present for someone." She fixed me with a pitiful glance. "I know; I'm pathetic. You don't have to say it." 

"Who's it for, then?" asked Beth curiously, afraid she was being left out of some terribly wicked gossip. 

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll read about it in the 3AM Girls tomorrow," giggled Emma, provoking a storm of recriminations and denials, which ceased only when Maddie stirred in the back seat. 

"You know, some of us would like to get an hour or two of rest once in a while!" 

Back at the hotel, I fell into bed, so tired that I was unconscious before I was even horizontal. None of us woke much before late afternoon, when someone came round to raise us for soundcheck. We knew the drill well - arrive early, tired eyed and unbathed, soundcheck, then retire to our hotel to shower and dress before the show. But no matter how many times I did it, I still got butterflies watching the theatre fill up from the wings. This place, a huge, cavernous converted garage in Islington, was easily four or five times as big as the tiny industry gig we'd done in Camden the week before, but just as packed.

Beth was in her element, chatting up the press and schmoozing out by the bar, while Emma and Maddie hid backstage. Someone saw me, peering nervously from the backstage door, and pulled me into the conversation with a lure of a drink. Soon I found myself standing next to Beth, indulging in Castles In Spain bullshittery with the best of them. We had our game down pat, bouncing witty remarks off each other, two soundbites a minute with deadpan comic timing. I was anxious to go on, wishing the evening over already so that I could be on my way over to Alex's. How absurd - here I was, at the beginning of my career, poised just before the dizzying ascent to fame, and all I could think about was some bloke I wanted desperately to sleep with. 'Slow down, girl,' I told myself, 'You'll only get to live this life once. Enjoy the moments you can, while they last' but somehow my thoughts would not stay concentrated on the music. 

The support band trooped offstage, the house lights went down and the crowd started their dull roar. Grabbing myself another drink, I took a deep breath and headed for the stage. 

The magic was still powerful. No matter what else had been on my mind seconds before, the moment I was onstage, nothing else existed except that transcendent moment of bliss. Time folded in upon itself - I could never tell if we'd been on for a minute or an hour. Buoyed up by the screaming adulation of hundreds of people, I passed somewhere beyond anything else I'd ever known. My hands flew like clockwork, running on autopilot through our familiar songs, leaving my mind wandering. It felt like flying; time snatched out of time, hours that flew by like minutes, then moments that seemed elongated into an eternity. Time just moved differently onstage, a hyper-detailed flow of adrenaline alertness.

It wasn't until after the show, after the encore, that I remembered that I had planned to meet Alex. Running a brush through my matted hair, I dowsed myself in patchouli to cover the traces of stage sweat, grabbed Alex's present and dashed off to find a cab, leaving the roadies to deal with my gear. 

Some time after midnight, I finally found myself climbing the stairs to his apartment and ringing the doorbell. Someone I didn't know let me in, and pointed back in the direction of the kitchen when I asked where Alex was. The tiny apartment was crammed with people, sitting on the floor, standing gathered around in groups - all quite conspicuously drunk. I tried not to gape, but almost everywhere I turned, I saw faces familiar from magazines, movies or the charts. In one corner, a fashion model was doing lines of coke with a well-known novelist; in another, a Turner prize-winning artist appeared to be engaged in an animated drinking game with a Brit Pack actor. Pushing my way through to the kitchen, I scanned the crowd for Alex before I finally found him sitting at the table talking on the phone. 

As soon as he saw me, he put the phone down and stood up, throwing his arms around me. "Kate! You made it! How wonderful!" He was, to put it politely, utterly piss-faced. Even after I had escaped his embrace, he left one arms wrapped around my shoulders, not so much out of affection, as to keep him upright. 

"Yeah, I just got off stage not half an hour ago."

"Really?! Hey, everybody," he announced to no one in particular, "Kate from the Charms is here! Everybody say hullo!" Of course, nobody paid any attention. By now, the Turner Prize-winning artist had picked up the phone and was carrying on the conversation with his forgotten friend.

"Actually, I have a present for you," I revealed.

"For me?" he slurred. "Oh, how sweet! I love presents! What is it?"

I handed over the book, relieved to see a huge grin spread over his face. "Oh, suuuuuper! This is fabulous! Oh..." Words failed him as he flipped through the pages. "I've heard about this book, but I've never seen it before! Oh, this has to be the nicest thing anyone's ever given me in my entire life!" He completed this drunken superlative with another hug and a sloppy kiss on my cheek. "Wherever did you find it?" 

"There's this rare book shop near the museum..." I explained. 

"Oh, which one? There's a whole row of them there; I love that place! Have you been to the Museum yet?" 

"Not on this trip... I love museums, but my bandmates think that they are far too geeky to be caught dead at them." 

"Oh, we should go!" he babbled enthusiastically. "I'll take you, in fact! I don't care if anyone thinks I'm a 'geek' as you so charmingly put it. Remind me when I'm sober, and we'll go." 

"If you remember when you're sober," I laughed. 

"I will - trust me," he assured me. "Now, dammit, why aren't you drunk? Let me get you a drink. What'll you have?" 

"No, I'm not playing that game. What do you have?" 

He giggled at the memory, and managed to locate me a gin and tonic. "This is what you wanted, if I remember correctly..." 

After a sip or two, I was feeling bold. "I don't know if I should drink this. Gin makes me terribly, erm..." I bent in close to whisper it conspiratorially. "It makes me a bit randy!" 

"Oh-ho!" he chortled. "I'll get you the bottle, then!" 

Suddenly someone complained from the other room "Hey, Alex, the CD's over - put on more music!" 

"Right, Katharine with a K - you're the guest of honour - what do you want to hear?" 

"Erm... It's a party, put on some crap dance music. New Order or something." 

"Now, young lady, as a bassist, you should realise that New Order are not crap at all!" he huffed indignantly, digging in a pile of CD's. "Peter Hook was a genius!" 

"No, I wholeheartedly agree," I laughed. "That soaring, melodic bass - that was what made me want to become a bassist in the first place. It's not like any bass you'd ever heard before - not even like a guitar. It's like another voice, soaring out over the top of everything... listen to that..." I waved my hands excitedly as the opening strains of 'Perfect Kiss' filled the room. 

"Beautiful," agreed Alex, sitting down on the floor in front of the CD player, gesturing for him to sit next to me. 

Like a fool, I ploughed on, my courage fortified by my rapidly vanishing, incredibly strong drink. "And you're not so bad, yourself." 

"Really? You think so?" In his inebriated state, he didn't seem offended by the flattery at all. 

"Oh, I love the way you play - you're the utter antithesis of the standard root note, kick drum player. You just do things most people would never think to do - little counter melodies and things that weave in and out..." When I noticed Alex was beaming with pride, I suddenly stopped. "I'm sorry. The music industry is creeping back into our time off." 

Alex burst out laughing. "No, that's quite all right - _Flattery_ will get you everywhere! Most people never even notice a note I play. I'm completely chuffed - really. That's the second nicest thing anyone's done to me all evening," he intoned with a wink. "Especially coming from you... hey, look what I got yesterday!" Digging in the CD pile again, he pulled out a single emblazoned with a familiar photo of four girls sitting on the steps of a New York brownstone. "Let's put this on next."

"Oh, no - let's not!" I tried to wrestle it away from him, but he held it out of my grasp. 

"Come on - it's lovely. My singer got it for me as a joke, I think, but I have to say I really like it." Flipping it into the CD changer, he studied the cover, then squinted at me. "You girls are photogenic. You'll do well." 

I squirmed as the song started, but Alex soon mercifully changed course. Our conversation flitted lightly from subject to subject as we grew steadily drunker, but I was impressed at how well we kept up with each other. No matter how obscure the reference I threw at him, he caught them all, from Schroedinger's cat to Neitzche's horse to embarrassingly awful 80's pop lyrics. I followed him from astronomical constellations through Greek mythology to Jungian psychological constructs without thinking twice. It wasn't until I found myself swearing in broken French and he laughed and replied in kind that I suddenly stopped and stared at him carefully. This could not be real - this man sitting cross legged opposite me on the floor was simply too good to be true. For the first time all evening, remembering where I was, I suddenly felt awkward, and looked down into my drink. 

At that moment, a shadow fell across us and a woman's voice said "Alex?" Alex looked up and smiled his radiant smile, leaping to his feet and kissing the woman on the mouth. In an instant, the bottom fell out of my world. How could I be so stupid? God, she was lovely, immaculately cut dark hair falling over a perfectly round face framed by prominent cheekbones and sausage-like full lips. Where had I seen her before? She looked achingly familiar - as if I'd seen her slightly cat-shaped eyes peering from a thousand fashion magazines.

For a few moments, she looked me up and down, as if appraising a threat, then turned away with a sniff, leaving me with the distinct impression that I had been snubbed. "Alex, darling. Why are you hiding over here? Leave the CD player - no one listens to music at a party. I have people I want you to meet..." 

Nervously, I pulled myself upright and tried to back away without either of them noticing. Wishing I could crawl inside the bowels of the earth itself, I settled for the mercifully free bathroom instead. 

Staring at my bedraggled reflection in the mirror, I muttered _'of course he has a girlfriend, you moron!'_ to myself. Yeah, but why did she have to be so beautiful; so immaculately fashionable and so perfectly dressed? Feeling like a gaudy, pale and straw haired scarecrow in my vintage minidress and ripped tights, I rinsed my face with water and tried to calm down. Damn, why did I drink so much so quickly? This was the scary flipside to my previous euphoria - that edge of desperation, of panic, sliding down into despair. 

Taking a deep breath, I towelled my face dry and stepped out into the hall again. Someone brushed past me in the semi-dark, another familiar face attached to a complete stranger. He was on our label, I'd seen his gold records in the Destructive offices. "Oi - are you all right? You look pale - like you've seen a ghost!" 

"No, I'm fine," I replied shakily. "Just a little tired." 

"Ah, I've got just the thing for you, then," he assured me, pulling me into the bathroom behind him. I watched entranced, almost disbelieving, as he took out a tiny envelope and prepared a line of powder on a vanity mirror. "Here you go," he offered, handing it to me after his business was done. Following his lead, I cautiously emulated his procedure, expecting the teeth-chattering jolt of the bad trucker speed that had got us all through countless gigs in the all-night bars of New York.

But this was not speed. For a second, I didn't feel anything, then suddenly it hit me with the full force of an ocean wave. That same rush of transcendent bliss, of all consuming godhood that gripped me when I was onstage - suddenly revealed to me again in Alex's cramped bathroom. Jesus Christ, this must be pure coke. Fucking hell, no one on the Lower East Side could _afford_ coke. For a second, I gasped, reeling, feeling my ego expanding until I didn't think the tiny, cramped bathroom could hold my vast talent.

"Good, eh?" laughed my companion, clearly amused by my reaction.

"Wow..." I gasped. "I feel much better now. Oh - I'm Kate, by the way." 

"I know who you are, Kate," he chortled, in a jovial, rolling Mancunian accent.

"I'm sorry. I'm still just getting used to this. Never quite sure of the etiquette, when you obviously know who someone is - and they might know who you are, but you don't want to be arrogant and just assume it." 

He laughed gaily, adding a wink. "Always assume that the other person knows who you. Even if they don't, they'll be too polite to offend you if you just act like you're famous. Acting like you _are_ famous is half the battle." 

Together, we pushed our way out to the kitchen and joined the throng round the fridge. I felt dizzy, light-headed, completely brilliant and talkative, babbling blue streaks at everyone around me. They all laughed hysterically at everything I said - it took a while to dawn on me that they were all in the same condition as I was. Someone suggested a jaunt to a nearby club, and I found myself included in the party, heading back down the hall towards the stairway. 

But as I was about to leave, Alex swept out of nowhere and grabbed me by the arm. "Are you leaving already?" He seemed almost... disappointed.

"Oh, we're going to some club, I think..." I stuttered lamely, trying not to let the pique of my rebuffed crush show. With the help of the drug's arrogance, it wasn't that difficult. 

"Coming, Kate?" called my bathroom-friend from the hall, his arm wrapped around a diminutive blonde woman to prevent him from tumbling down the stairs. 

"Oh. Well." Alex stiffened, the nonchalant expression glazing back over his face. "I'm really glad you stopped by. Thanks again for the book!" he slurred. "And call me about going to the museum - I'm serious!" 

"I don't have your number," I shrugged disinterestedly. 

Digging through the clutter on top of the table by the door, Alex pulled out a permanent marker, then grabbed my hand and scrawled his phone number across my palm. "Now you do. Call me." 

My head spun with confusion as I stumbled down the stairs and joined my new friends in a taxi. I had spent the entire evening in anticipation of going to see Alex, and now I was speeding away. Staring at the phone number on my hand, I tried to think clearly, but my thoughts were racing out ahead of my brain. Had I jumped to hasty conclusions? She had to have been his girlfriend, from the way he had greeted her. But if she was, why was he giving me his phone number with instructions to call him for a date? Did he even mean it as such? I turned to ask the bloke from the bathroom, but he was very much involved in amatory activities with the blonde woman. Turning to the other side, I stared out the window past my other companion. 

"Look, I've changed my mind..." I ventured. "I'm exhausted. Can you just drop me back at my hotel?" 

The other man just laughed and pulled another tiny envelope out of his jacket. For a second, some ounce of common sense flickered in my brain, telling me not to, but I disregarded it, fuelling my already racing bloodstream with more of the drug. 

 

\-----

 

I woke up the next morning with a blinding headache, not really sure of where the hell I was. Opening my eyes did not even help - a flash of light blinded me, so I rolled over to confront unfamiliar upholstery. A couch. Whose couch? I wondered incoherently. This isn't Beth's futon. Ah well, I appeared to be alone on it, at least. Craning my neck, I raised my head slightly and surveyed my surroundings. A posh pad, whoever it belonged to. Trying to jog my defective brain, I searched through the memories of what I did remember of the night before. The gig, Alex's party, snorting coke in the loo, more in the cab, arriving at a club somewhere in the West End, more gin, too much gin, too much everything. 

Rising groggily to my feet, I looked around for a signs of an occupant, or more importantly, a bathroom, but found neither. Not even a front door. Damn, this place was a mansion. Panic struck, but I ventured down another hallway, and finally found a door with deadbolts. Assuming it at least lead out of the house, I unfastened it and dashed through. Down a flight of stairs, and I was out into the morning sun, but my heart sank when I saw the completely unfamiliar neighbourhood. Damn! London was like a rabbit warren. Alone, with neither a guide not a map. I had as much chance of finding my way home as an Antarctic explorer. Hell, I didn't even know which side of the river I was on - the North, I assumed from the "NW" emblazoned on the street signs. ' _Keep walking_ ,' I told myself. ' _Sooner or later, you've got to get to some sort of main road, and a main road means a bus route, and a bus route means a map_.' 

I walked for 15 minutes, but only managed to get myself caught further in court upon court of the tall, stately Regency houses. Curse the English and their Sunday opening hours, not even the shops were open. From somewhere, I could hear church bells... a church would mean people, at least.

Finally, an utter godsend stroke of luck - a taxi pulled down my street and dispensed its passenger across the street. Running over, I managed to flag it down and climb inside. A left turn, a right turn and we passed the Belsize Park tube station. As recognition hit me, I suddenly felt incredibly stupid. Had I really just been wandering around lost, less than half a mile from our hotel, the entire time?

I snuck into my hotel room like a guilty teenager, trying very hard not to disturb Beth, only to find that the bed next to mine had not even been touched. Oh - so I was not the only person AWOL last night. Clutching my aching head, I headed back out to the main room connecting our suite to look for some aspirin. I heard signs of life from the other bedroom, so I knocked and stuck my head in to find a bedraggled Emma sitting on the side of her bed. 

"Where's Beth and Maddie?" I asked curiously. 

"Oh, I thought you were with them," she shrugged. I shook my head. "Oh, you missed it, then!" she laughed. "There was a big surprise for us after the show. We got invited to the release party for AbSynth's big come-back record!" 

"What?! Beth and Maddie must have been in seventh heaven!" I chortled. "How did they swing that?"

"I don't know. Lucky guess on some PR's part? Beth's been an utter AbSynth fanatic since she was a kid," Emma sniggered. "I remember the dog-eared posters of Gary Goode adorning her walls in high school."

"Like you didn't have a AbSynth poster on your walls! You were a teenager in the 80s. It's not like you had a choice!" I protested. "So who was your favourite? For me, it was all about John Smith and his fucking cheekbones... the bassist, of course. Which one did you like? Roger Smith? No, no, knowing you, you're perverse. I bet you liked Andy Smith."

"None of them!" Emma snorted disdainfully. "During the 80s, I was listening to The Jam, I'll have you know." 

"Liar!" I shot back. "You remember New Romantic - you can't tell me you didn't have a pair of white trousers in your closet after seeing Gary Goode swanning around so elegantly in AbSynth videos..."

"I had white trousers after seeing Blow Up!" she defended huffily. 

"Well, I hated The Jam, to tell the truth. My parents were Mods. I wanted to rebel and do something else. New Romantic was, at least, new."

"Dadrock, literally," Emma giggled. "Well, if you're such a big AbSynth fan, the party is probably still going, if you run you can probably catch it."

"Dunno," I sighed. "Not sure that I want to. AbSynth were such a huge part of my youth that I'm not sure I want to spoil it by finding out what they're like now. They've all got to be in their 40s now. What if they're cunts? Or what if they're just boring old men? I mean, meeting pop stars. It's weird, isn't it? Like they're never quite as larger-than-life as you think they're going to be." The thought of Alex's face drifted vaguely across my face. Was I disappointed by the reality of him, or had I barely even scratched the surface?

"Well, they sure can party for 40-something year old men, given they've absconded with our bandmates. Beth and Maddie have 24 hours to be back or we're sending a search party. Our plane leaves tomorrow." 

"Plane?" I had totally forgotten that we were even supposed to go back to New York. "Tomorrow?" 

"Yeeeeeesssss..." reminded Emma patronisingly. "We have a string of promotional dates back home. Remember all that time we spent on the phone pulling in favours and begging gigs? We do have to work to be pop stars - It's not all sipping champagne on yachts with 80s bands." 

My heart sank. I had barely given New York a second thought since we'd got here. I didn't feel homesick at all - rather, after the way we'd been greeted in London, I felt a vague revulsion for my adopted home. And Alex... so much for going on our museum tour. Unless... "Do we have anything planned for this afternoon?" 

Emma shook her head. "We're free. I was planning on doing some record shopping! Wanna come?" 

I weighed the offer, but shook my head, staring at the phone number still legible on my palm. "I have some friends I have to say goodbye to." 

Emma hooted with laughter. "Katie and Alex, sitting in a tree..." 

Ignoring her, I returned to my room and dialled Alex's number. One ring, two... and ansaphone picked up, and Alex's slightly inebriated voice announced over a cacophony of background noise "It's Saturday night, we're having a party - if you're trying to get in touch with me, you have no excuse not to come over!" 

"Hi, it's Kate - it's actually Sunday afternoon now. I guess you're not up yet... Erm... we're leaving for the States tomorrow, so I just wanted to say goodbye before we..." 

Suddenly phone picked up before I could lose my nerve and finish the message. "Kate? Kate? Don't hang up... you there?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh mate... ugh, hang on - let me wake up..." 

"I'm sorry. Did I get you out of bed?" I stuttered. 

"No, 'sallright. I'm glad you caught me, actually. Damn - did you say you were leaving tomorrow?" 

"Mmm-hmmm." He groaned faintly on the other end. "Are you feeling alright?" 

"Bit hungover. You?"

"Same, I guess," I laughed. "Don't really remember much of last night."

"Probably for the best," agreed Alex. "Then again, you left before it got really bad. Damien decided to turn the contents of my fridge into art. All over the kitchen floor. Aw... my flat's a disaster. That's the last time I throw a party here. You should see this place... I should move and leave this place as is. Hell, I could probably get Damien to sign it and sell it as an installation, now he's got a Turner Prize."

"Sounds ghastly," I commiserated. "Well, sorry we're not going to be able to do our geek tour of London after all." 

"Oh, you're going tomorrow - yeah." Alex actually sounded disappointed. "Wait - I think the Science Museum might be open on Sundays... what are you doing this afternoon? I'll buy you lunch if you can wait long enough for me to turn back into a human being," he offered. 

I agreed without thinking, then suddenly found myself in a panic. I showered and dressed, but even that couldn't eliminate the puffy dark circles under my eyes. Damn - what to wear? Everything was filthy - I changed four times, but everything I liked smelled slightly of bars and gigs, while the only clean clothes I had were shapeless and baggy. 'I can't believe I'm doing this' I thought as I ran downstairs and across the road to buy a new pair of jeans. It was a miracle that I was dressed and across town in time to meet him on the corner of Exhibition Road. I was slightly late, but mercifully, he was slightly later. 

Alex grinned when he saw me, waving broadly as he ambled over. When he threw his arms around me in a friendly hug and pecked me on the cheek, I felt like I was going to pass out. _'Watch it'_ I warned myself continually, walking beside him but maintaining a respectable distance.

"It's strange being back here," I told him as we paid our admission to the Science Museum and shuffled through into the exhibits. "I came here a hundred times when I was a child. It was one of my favourite places in London. I remember spending hours and hours, staring up at the largest steam engine in the world, driving a wheel so enormous it seemed like the building could barely contain it."

"There is a steam engine with a huge flywheel here," Alex assured me. "They have a whole collection of infernal engines, puffing devils and dark, Satanic mills!"

"But childhood memories are always distorted," I scoffed. "There's no way that wheel could be as massive as I remembered it."

"You'll see," Alex whistled me, taking me by the arm and dashing through the halls, following the sound of machinery.

My breath caught in my throat when I finally saw it again, a mill wheel with a radius the size of a grown man. "Wow. After all those years, it's still just as huge, as devilish and as awe-inspiring as I remembered it!"

"Shuddering and puffing away like a living beast, still soaring up over our heads," Alex agreed. "Some memories are real, some childhood dreams still come true."

We easily fell into pattering conversation as we meandered through the galleries, trading anecdotes and stories. After the hectic pace and close quarters of the tour, it was almost a relief to be alone with him. No one hurried me on when I wanted to stop and play for hours with the same exhibit, no one complained when I skipped on ahead, and no one told me it was time to go back to the hotel. Being with Alex was so effortless - I felt pressure neither to dumb down my rambling, nor to affect some pretence of pseudo intellectual bluff. 

Alex gestured towards the lift, shifting his weight on his feet like an impatient racehorse. "So, what do you want to see next? History of air flight? Or a special exhibition on the geology of the Kalahari Desert?"

"What do I want to see an exhibition on the Kalahari for when I've already seen the real thing?"

"When were you ever in the Kalahari?"

I had, for once, genuinely surprised Alex."Visiting my grandmother in South Africa. We flew over it in a little rickety plane that broke down near the border of Namibia. I've seen it closer than I ever wanted to."

"Namibia? South Africa? You just get more and more complicated the more I find out about you. And I thought Americans never travelled."

"I told you I wasn't American."

"Alright then. No Namibian geology for you. Shall we go upstairs instead? Ooh, look. They've got a special astronomy exhibit on  - deep field photography from the Hubbell Space Telescope. That you can't possibly have already seen."

I smiled at him expectantly. "Deep field photography sounds promising. Anything from the Hubbell Space Telescope has got to be good."

"Ah, it's brilliant," intoned Alex, gearing up for a long-winded explanation. "You see, when we look at the stars, it appears that there are huge, empty spaces between them. Because of the distorting effects of the Earth's atmosphere, we can't see what's between then, even with the most powerful telescopes on earth."

"But the Hubbell Space Telescope is in orbit outside the Earth's atmosphere," I pointed out. Both of us just liked saying _Hubbell Space Telescope_. It sounded so cool, a Space Telescope.

"Exactly. So it can take photographs of the 'empty space' known as the Deep Field," he lectured, lowering his voice to a trippy, surreal whisper as we entered the gallery, staring at the photographs before us, the colours of the stars and the nebulae startlingly bright against the black of the night sky. "To the naked eye, it looked like there was nothing there, just light-years of isolated blackness between the stars. But as you can see these supposedly dark, empty spaces..."

"Eliminate the distortion, and they're filled with light..." The two of us stopped in front of a particularly dazzling photograph, a plume of interstellar dust a million light-years across, shimmering with all the colours of the rainbow, a nursery nebula where stars were being formed. Suddenly we stopped staring at the photograph and stared at each other, our eyes locking, shining with longing. I didn't even realise how comfortable I had felt with him, until this sudden lapse in the flow. "What?" I asked worriedly. 

"Nothing." He shook his head. "You're really leaving tomorrow?" I nodded. "That's such a shame." 

"I know - I feel like I only just arrived. We've been so busy every second of every day butt I don't really feel like I've accomplished a thing." His face was so close, his wide brown eyes looming so large, so full of wonder. Every instinct in my body told me to just lean forward and kiss him right there, in front of the deep field photographs, but something stopped me. The moment lasted for a gorgeous eternity, then it was gone.

Damn, no - the mood couldn't have slipped away, just like that, but somehow it had. That strange wall of Alex's had come down between us again. Our conversation dragged sluggishly in fits and starts, unlike its earlier glistening perfect soap bubbles. I suddenly noticed how tired I was. Alex's eyes were heavily lidded - neither of us could keep up. 

"I'm sorry," he finally offered. "It's not the company, believe me. I'm just exhausted and hung over." He paused, his eyebrows knitting into a hang dog expression. "It really is a shame you have to leave so soon..." he repeated. Could he please stop reminding me of the fact?

"We'll be back," I assured him. "We have to do a real tour in another month." 

He looked as if he was about to say something, then shook his head. Another instant, and he had apparently changed his mind again. "Promise me you'll keep in touch. You have my phone number - call me any time." 

"I'm not good with phones," I confessed. "My friends all berate me for it, but I just hate them..." He looked away, obviously taking it personally, though I tried to convince him otherwise. "Do you have e-mail?" I ventured. 

He burst out laughing. "It's not phone numbers any more, is it? It's all electronic addresses, now, isn't it? No, I don't. When I come to some things, I'm still a Luddite," he declared. 

"Well, that's the only way to get a hold of me most of the time," I shot back. "Well, if you change your mind..." Suddenly feeling very bold, I reached into my purse and pulled out a pen. Seizing his hand, I scrawled my email address across his palm. "There, now we're even." 

And then I kissed him. For once in my life, I managed to accomplish one of those perfectly cinematic moments, thanking him for the afternoon, then sweeping out of the museum, leaving him with a surprised expression and the memory of my lips pressed for an incredibly bold moment against his.


	3. Look Inside America

Touching down in New York City filled me with an incredible sense of sadness. Flying over all those tiny, perfectly identical houses splayed out like matchboxes over Long Island, it seemed like we were returning to the ends of the earth. 

The rest of the band did not share my disquiet. They had enjoyed England, but New York was their home, and they seemed relieved to be back. 

"Oh, I can't wait to get on that A train back to Brooklyn," sighed Emma.

"I'm dying for a bagel with Lox..." 

"A real slice of pizza," added Maddie.

"An egg cream," I deadpanned sarcastically. 

"Oh, vile!" exclaimed Emma. "You don't actually drink those things, do you?" 

"I'm joking," I countered. "I miss London Pride already." 

"After all that talk, I don't think I drank anything except champagne the whole time," laughed Beth. 

I stared out the window at the swampish flatlands of Queens. Home. If this was my home now, why did it feel so much like exile? This was exactly the same flight I must have made as a child - Heathrow to JFK, uprooted from everything I'd ever known or called my own to a hostile, alien land that neither wanted nor accepted me. No wonder the final approach to the runway always made me so sad, no matter where I was headed. It always felt like it had a terminal finality - that some part of my life was over, and another, more unpleasant part was about to begin. 

We collected our baggage and breezed through customs, then Beth and Maddie disappeared on the shuttle to the subway, while Emma and I struggled with our flight cases as we hailed a taxi. Was this all we'd really brought with us? The rest had been hired in London. Two guitars, a bass, a gig bag of pedals and a rack mounted sample unit fit easily in the trunk of a taxi. 

Emma chattered gaily as I sulked in silence. "Look - Flushing Meadows! Now I really feel like I'm home! I was born in this neighbourhood, you know." 

"I was born in the city we've just left," I responded morosely. 

"Come on, Kate - cheer up. We'll be back." 

I didn't want to be cheered up. "That weird feeling of homesickness you've been having for a few weeks... I've been experiencing that for 10 years." 

"Oh, lighten up!" Emma exclaimed. "I feel like a conquering hero returning home. Finally, after how many years of shitty New York clubs, we're going to be headlining proper gigs up and down the East Coast. Do you know how many contacts and favours we had to pull to put together this tour? And all you can do is whine about not being in England." I glared at her nastily, then turned away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that as testily as it sounded. This is supposed to be fun, Kate. Why are you moping?" 

I shook my head. "I'm sorry. Jet lag, I guess." 

"Come on - let's see a smile out of you," she teased, reaching over and trying to push her fingers under the corners of my mouth. 

"Cut it out!" I snorted, batting her off. 

"Not until you smile!" she insisted. By the time we reached our Manhattan rehearsal studio, she had succeeded in tickling me into giggles. We unloaded the equipment, then retreated to our respective homes to recover. I managed the subway in a daze, fumbling with the already unfamiliar American change, then stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, kicked off my shoes, ran a cursory eye through several weeks accumulated mail and telephone messages, then gave up and collapsed onto my bed. 

I had not realised how tired I was until I closed my eyes. Weeks of steady drinking and little sleep had taken their toll on me, but safe in my own room, surrounded by the christmas tree lights and paisley scarves, I felt totally and completely relaxed for the first time since the whole thing had started. Without bothering to take off my clothes, I simply stretched out, pulled my blankets over my head and slipped into sleep. 

It was dark when I woke up, but I felt amazingly refreshed. Climbing out of bed, I made myself a pot of coffee, then took a long, leisurely hot shower. When I finally emerged, clean and happy, I sat in my favourite spot on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. OK, maybe home did have some creature comforts, I reflected, switching on the cable TV and turning off my mind. Strange - there was nothing on but infomercials and B Grade movies. Glancing at the clock, I realised it was 5 am. No wonder my house mate was nowhere to be seen. 

Suddenly, it dawned on me that I no longer had a nine to five job. Being a pop star might not be so bad, I reflected. Between the periods of frenzied activity, my life was my own. If I wanted to spend the entire day mucking about on the internet, there was no one to tell me not to. Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I settled down in front of my computer, for a good session of catching up on gossip with my on-line friends. 

I logged on and collected my mail, deleted two weeks worth of get-rich-quick schemes and chain letters, and set down to read messages from old friends. Among the names I recognised, and the usual culprits from my mailing lists was a new moniker: Alex@slur.co.uk. Oh, someone having a go at me over the Alex thing, no doubt, so I waited until I had perused all my other messages before getting around to opening it. When I saw the signature, I blinked. No, it couldn't be. Someone had to be having me on. Feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, I tried to calm down and read it. No, this had to be him... 

 

> To: Kate@thecharms.com  
>  From: Alex@slur.co.uk  
>  Subject: The Luddite Gives In 
> 
> Oh, mate, I hope you get this. I'm still pretty new at this technology thing, but I seem to have mastered the basics enough to Outlook Express myself and drop you a brief message.  
>  I can't tell you how much I enjoyed myself at the museum on Sunday. I can't believe it - I talked so much I actually gave myself a sore throat.  
>  I have good news, though. We're coming to the states! Hooray! We have to waggle our bums for the press and do the trained monkey act, but I'd love to get together with you when we're in New York.  
>  I showed you my museum, now you have to show me yours!  
>  Cheers,  
>  Alex 

 

I read the message three time, hardly believing my eyes. It sounded like him, at least. Who else would know about that? I hadn't even told my bandmates about our afternoon - they were the only people I knew silly enough to pull a joke like this. No, it had to be him. Feeling like a thirteen year old, I got up and did a little dance around the kitchen before I replied. 

 

> To: Alex@slur.co.uk  
>  From: Kate@thecharms.com  
>  Subject: Re: The Luddite Gives In 
> 
> Hey, Alex -  
>  You do know that Microsoft is run by masons, don't you?  
>  When are you coming to New York? We've got to take our dog and pony show on the road for the next few weeks, but if you're here when we get back, you got yerself a guide.  
>  Kate 

 

I was walking on air for the next few days, floating through our brief rehearsal. Beth came in with a stack of British music magazines, and we fell upon them, practically ripping them apart as we searched for articles on ourselves. Squealing happily, Emma announced "We made Public NME! Look at this!" There is was - the final proof of our pop status. The number next to our single on the charts meant nothing - this was the true barometer of fame. "Kate, did you know you went on a cocaine binge with William and Jim Gallivant of Mirage? Beth, tsk tsk, you naughty girl - you were seen hanging on the arm of 80s heartthrob Gary Goode at the AbSynth record release party. And Maddie... Oh, Maddie..." 

"What?" she demanded breathlessly. 

Emma made a face and threw the paper at us. "They didn't even mention either of us." 

"That's cause you two are antisocial, and run back to the hotel instead of schmoozing with the press!" I shot back, laughing as I picked up the paper. Was that really me? I had to admit, it was a thrill to see my name in print, especially accused of such delicious sounding debauchery. Picking up the other magazines, I stared at the full colour photos and glowing reviews. "How about the American papers? Is there anything on us?" 

Emma shook her head. "Nothing - oh, wait - AP have a one-line review of our single. Oh. And we _finally_ got a preview in the Village Voice." 

I couldn't help but laugh. What a difference between England and America. The NME had declared us the Best Band In Britain after one show. Back home, we barely made the listings after two years on the scene.

At least our friends still loved us, crowding the VIP area at the Bowery Ballroom. Rob Sugarpussy even brought us a bottle of champagne. It wasn't quite London, but it was still an amazing feeling of vindication, to be greeted as conquering heroes, as Emma had put it. Everyone we knew was there - the other girls' families were sitting up in the balcony, waving proudly. But strangely, despite the elation, I still felt slightly out of place. Beth and Emma moved easily among their friends, but I retreated back to the bar to find myself a drink. Sitting by myself, I sipped gin and tonic as I watched the room slowly fill up with familiar faces. Various scenesters wandered in, waved their greetings, schmoozed for a bit, and then wandered off again.

And then it hit me, the source of my discomfort. Two months ago, these people wouldn't have given us the time of day. Two months ago, the hipsters wouldn't have crossed Ludlow St. to spit on us. Two months ago, all these people in vaguely successful downtown bands would have laughed at us if we'd asked for the opening slot of their shows at Brownie's or the Mercury Lounge, and now here they were, hanging around us, drinking our alcohol and chatting like we'd been best friends forever. The assholes who'd sniggered when they'd heard we'd got signed, who'd laughed behind their hands when they heard we were going to England, and predicted that we'd end up home in about three days, with our tails tucked between our legs, these same assholes were now pumping our hands, congratulating us on our single and suggesting that maybe we play a show together. As fucking if.

But the worst part of it all was how my bandmates were reacting. I wanted to peel the leeches off my skin, run away and hide backstage, but they seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Maddie, at least, had a vague air of supercilious disdain, as if she was laughing at their sudden two-faced turnarounds with a sense of vindication, but Emma was practically beside herself. If I'd been impressed by the incestuous world of the London pop scene, well, this was the inner circle of Manhattan cool that Emma longed to penetrate. And Beth... Beth so longed to be accepted, to be loved, that the reason why didn't really seem to matter.

Feeling vaguely sick to my stomach with a sense of ill at ease that was more than just nerves, I excused myself, and retreated to the relative privacy of the ladies room to try and settle myself. Damn, no matter how many times I did this, I still got pre-gig jitters every time. The only thing for it was a drink, so I headed backstage to find myself some more gin. I managed to successfully avoid our entourage until after the opening band had finished, and we were being rushed to get ready to go onstage. Another gin and tonic and we were on; nothing could distract me then. 

We floated through the gig in a very strange atmosphere, trying unsuccessfully not to let the very obvious tension show. There was so much to prove, so many people jealousy watching to see if we tripped and fell, and just as many new faces who had heard the Trans-Atlantic buzz and wanted to see us for themselves. How strange it seemed that it took going to England to make us successes in our own hometown.

\-----------------------

Over the next two weeks, we played up and down the East coast, driving between gigs in Maddie's battered old van. How Maddie stayed sane, I'll never know, driving five or six hours at a stretch, lying down for a quick nap in the back of the van, then leaping up to play a gig, before driving off again as soon as it was over to try and get the equipment somewhere safe. It was a pain in the arse, humping our gear in and out twice every day, but we'd heard too many horror stories about touring bands getting their equipment nicked from motel parking lots. But I had developed super-toned arm muscles from hauling my bass cabinet around, and I was starting to get used to sleeping on the floor of a shared motel room between the kick drum and my bass head. And in the morning, there was always the inevitable squabble over seats in the van. Beth always trumped us all, calling shotgun with the insistence that she got carsickness and had to sit up front, but it was a race between Emma and I, squabbling over whose turn in the shower it was, so we could get to the van early and claim the good seat by the window instead of crouching down in the back between the amplifiers.

After the heady world of champagne and aftershows in London, it was a bit of a comedown, but it seemed exciting, like the prelude to a grand adventure that was only just beginning. _This_ was still the reality we were used to - the red carpet treatment in London seemed like the impossible dream.

We were growing more confident as a band, as well, honing our live show. Our brief jaunt up the Eastern Seaboard was a walk in the park compared to the hectic claustrophobia of our British shows, so we were free to experiment, to grow into our nascent images. Beth was no longer the self conscious little schoolgirl with the big voice; she was learning to project an image bigger than herself, playing off the audience instead of to them. Emma was becoming more focused on her guitar playing as well as her manic whirling about the stage. How they could concentrate on anything when they were up there was beyond me - I was still being transported to some place where I was beyond everything. No matter how many times I did it, that never changed. 

When we finally got back to New York, I was overjoyed to find another message from the elusive Alex. Brimming over with excitement at recent events, I replied eagerly. 

 

> To: Alex@slur.co.uk  
>  From: Kate@thecharms.com  
>  Subject: Back From Tour
> 
> The shows have been going so well I can't believe it. Shit, I have to run to rehearsal, but I'll type more later...  
>  Kate 

 

> To: Kate@thecharms.com  
>  From: Alex@slur.co.uk  
>  Subject: Here We Come!
> 
> I just realised I've never seen you perform live! Perhaps I'll get the pleasure soon... you haven't forgotten we're coming to your hometown next week, I hope! Noo Yawk, here we come! Hurrah!  
>  Alex  
>  P.S. What *IS* your phone number, oh woman of high-tech secrecy? 

 

I grinned as I read it, then fired it back to him. How fortuitous! Next week was our last breather, and then we were headed back to Britain to tour in support of our second single. Although we had been slightly disappointed by the modest success of the first, press coverage for the follow-up was looking favourable and the song was already getting some radio play. Destructive seemed to think we had an even better shot at the charts with a promotional tour, so back we were going, with no complaints from me! 

We rehearsed every day for a week in preparation, though I didn't really think we needed it, fresh from our recent shows as we were. But Beth was smarting from the "They only have six songs" comments in our live reviews, and was dying to prove the press wrong, digging through our back catalogue and rehearsing dozens of tunes. At least it kept me too busy to worry about anything else; with my thoughts otherwise occupied, I didn't have the time or the energy to be nervous about my upcoming visitor. 

So when I got home late from rehearsal one night, the clipped male voice on the answering machine caught me totally by surprise. "Kate? Kate? Are you there?" He sounded un-nervingly close despite the static. "It's Alex - we just got into town this afternoon. Erm... we'll be doing interviews for most of the day, but I was hoping to get together tonight. Oh, well - maybe tomorrow. you can try calling me at the Paramount, but I doubt we'll be there." 

Nervously, I dialled information to get the number, which he had forgotten to leave, then called the hotel. Damn! Surely they travelled under assumed names... "Erm, Alex Jones' room, please," I told the operator, sure I was to be told they had no such guest. 

"Just one moment, please." Maybe not. For an eternity, I waited on hold, trying very hard not to sing along with the muzak. Oh, that was the last thing I needed - for Alex to hear me burbling along with the 101 stings version of 'Brandy You're A Fine Girl.' But eventually, there was a click, and the operator came back on. "I'm sorry - there's no answer in Mr. Jones' room. Would you like to leave a message?" 

"Erm, sure... just tell him that Kate called and I'm at home now..." I stuttered, losing my nerve. 

"You wouldn't be a Ms. Katharine Witherkaye, would you, by any chance?" 

I laughed at the inside joke. "Yes, that's me..." 

"Oh, I have a message for you from Mr. Jones, then." 

"Really?" I gasped, then tried to hide my surprise. "What did he say?" 

"He left word to ask you to meet him at Crash." 

"Crash? As in the night-club?"

"I would assume so. They booked a taxi for the West Village a few hours ago."

"Thank you," I responded and hung up. Crash, hangout of various models, actors and the professionally famous? How the bloody hell was I going to get in there? My 'celebrity' status in the States accounted for a free drink at the Lakeside Lounge every now and then, but it certainly was not going to admit me to a place like Crash. But as I thought about it, I started to grow annoyed. True, I had been extremely flattered that he had thought enough to leave a message for me, but to just demand my presence without speaking to me... to assume that I had nothing better to do than arrive at his beck and call? "I don't think so, Mr Jones," I snorted to the answering machine and deleted the message. 

I was awoken early the next morning by a flurry of impatient knocks upon my bedroom door. "Kate... phone for you!" announced my house mate, pushing the door open wide enough to accommodate her arm, holding the cordless phone.

"Who the bloody hell is this?" I demanded petulantly, taking the handset and retreating back under the covers. "Do you know what time it is?"

"It's well after noon, isn't it?" replied a familiar whispering male voice.

"Not in this bloody time zone, mate," I shot back.

"Well, I wanted to make sure I got you."

"Well, you've got me. What do you want?"

Silence for a few seconds, then a sullen response. "Never mind." 

Sitting up in bed, I tried desperately to drag myself to some semblance of alertness. "No, Alex, wait. I'm sorry. I'm a bear in the morning." 

"I hadn't noticed," he shot back sarcastically. 

"I'm free tonight - do you want to go to dinner or something?" I offered. 

"Actually, we have to go to dinner with some people from the label," he replied coldly, then slipped into silence. I could hear him breathing at the other end of the phone. Fine, two could play this game, I decided, letting the conversation drop. For a minute, there was nothing except his deep, even breath, until finally he gave in. "Do you want to try and meet up for drinks afterwards?" 

Resisting the urge to snap back _'fine, if you pick some place they'll let a proletarian like myself in,'_ I casually asked. "Sure - where?" 

"Oh, I'm sure we'll end up at Crash again. Damon seems to like it." So the singer from his band was going to be there as well. Damn - there went my hopes for a quiet and intimate evening. "Unless you can think of somewhere else. I'm not too keen on the place, actually." 

"How about Sophie's," I suggested. "It's small, it's dark, and it's just a neighbourhood place, so we won't attract any attention." 

"Sounds good to me," he agreed, as I gave him the address. "Around 10pm? See you there." 

As I put the phone down, I suddenly remembered to breathe again. Even though I was barely awake, it suddenly dawned on me what had just transpired, and shot out of bed. "Doris..." I called. 

"What? Who was that? He woke me up," she grumbled as she poured herself a cup of coffee. 

"Doris, I think I have a date tonight... with Alex Jones!" I could no longer control my voice as it slid up into a shriek. "At least, I think it's a date - I don't know. I mean, I'm going to meet him at a bar downtown - that's a date, right?" She nodded - I could tell she had given up listening. "Oh my god, what am I going to do? What am I going to wear? Aaarrrrgggghhh..." 

I was a nervous wreck the entire day, unable to concentrate on anything. Rehearsal was a complete waste of time - I bashed my way through our set, then ran out without any explanation. Nothing I had could possibly be good enough to wear - I found myself making some excuse to go downtown and buy three new dresses, none of which satisfied me as soon as I got home. 

' _Calm down, Kate_ ' I told myself, but I never listened, drinking more and more coffee until I had literally worked myself into a frenzy. The first dress was abandoned as too formal for a bar in the East Village, the second was too slutty, the third made me feel "bulgy" and fat. "The hell with you all, then," I sighed, stuffing them all back in my closet and pulling out my favourite dress, a black and silver glittery thing in a very short 60s cut. 10 o'clock seemed so far away - why did I agree to meet him so late? Even television could not distract me for long. I sat down, flipped through the channels, settled on something, then five minutes later, I'd be up and pacing again. At nine, I gave up and set out for the subway. Perhaps there would be a problem with the trains... perhaps I would get lost, even though I'd been there a hundred times... perhaps I was wishing for some act of god to strike me dead so I wouldn't have to actually go through with it. 

But as luck would have it, the trains connected like clockwork, every walk signal flashed green as I approached it, and I was sitting at the familiar dirty bar sipping a gin and tonic by 9:30. The time dragged as I tried to absorb myself in the football game on the television to avoid interaction with the desperate hopefuls who tried to strike up conversation. Every time I glanced up at the clock, it seemed only another minute had passed. Ten o'clock came and went, and there was still no sign of Alex. By quarter past, I was panicking. At 10:25, I decided I was going to give him five more minutes, then I was going to run home in disgrace with my tail between my legs. Glancing at my watch one last time, I swallowed the last of my drink then headed back to the ladies room. Staring at myself in the cracked mirror above the bar, I cursed myself for being so foolish as to think that he would actually turn up. Why would a massive fuck-off famous pop star be drinking in a dirty hole in the wall like this, when he could breeze easily behind the velvet ropes into private clubs?

Yet all the annoyance of the past hour was forgotten when I finally emerged to see Alex standing at the corner of the bar, ordering a drink. 

"I thought you'd stood me up," I laughed as I skipped over to him. 

He pulled a jokingly sullen half smile. "Well, I waited till 3am for you last night, and you never showed." Needling me in the ribs, he turned to a man I previously hadn't noticed standing next to him at the bar. "I don't think you've met Damon..." 

My spirits sank as Damon nodded and pumped my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Hello..." I ventured, trying extremely hard not to let my disappointment show. 

"Fantastic juke box," observed Damon in an incredibly deep voice that belied his shaggy blond, boyish good looks. "I love this place. It's so... _authentic_. We never get to go out much any more at home..." 

"The girlies start screaming for Damon and we have to go home," explained Alex, pulling a face. "What are you drinking? Oh, I remember - G&T, right?" 

Damon stepped up onto the footrest to lean in front of Alex. "Oh, he remembers your drink - he must like you." 

"Shut up," retorted Alex. "Just cause you change yours every time you decide to give up drinking. Shall we get a table?" 

I noticed morosely that Alex took the bench opposite me while Damon squeezed in next to me, grinning madly at some private joke. The two of them flung insults back and forth with such chummy glee that I couldn't help but feel left out. Damon did his best to get my attention, showing off for my benefit, with the native arrogance that only the lead singer of a massive pop band could pull off, but Alex barely looked at me. By the end of his drink, he had decided that he was bored and wanted to go somewhere else. 

As we left, Damon threaded his arm through mine and demanded, "All right - you're the local - where should we go now?" 

I wracked my brain, distracted by the purely friendly gesture as we strolled up Avenue B. For a moment, it had seemed almost natural that I was escorting rock stars around the dingy, dirty local bars where I was misspending so much of my youth. "Erm, well, my favourite is the Lakeside Lounge. It's got a really cheesy 50's motif - sort of David Lynch style. Fantastic juke box, since I notice you're into that sort of thing... It'll give you great research for your new American obsession," I teased. 

"I'm not obsessed with America," he huffed. "I just like being able to go out drinking without being hassled. 

"All you Brits are obsessed with America," I shrugged. "Why do you think bands like mine do so much better in the UK than here?"

Damon harrumphed and changed the subject as if he was embarrassed to be caught out. "Alex, you're being awfully quiet..." 

Alex shrugged as we walked up to the bar and immediately demanded what sort of brandy they had. 

With an aghast face, Damon cut in front of him. "Hey, y'all. What sort of beers ya got?" he asked with an almost comical fake redneck accent. 

"Look, you limey motherfuckers," shot back Arthur, crossing his arms over the ripped T-shirt that barely covered his chest. "We got Remy Martin and we got Hennessey. What you want?" 

I tried very hard not to laugh as Damon stepped back quite hastily, slipping back into his customary clipped middle class patter. "Erm, three Remy Martins would be very nice, thank you." 

"No problem, Damon - they're on the house," replied Arthur with a grin and a wink in my direction. This made up for years of over-tipping him. 

"Oh god," whispered Alex in my ear. "We'll be out of here by the end of this drink. Just you watch." 

But contrary to Alex's prediction, Damon decided that he liked this bar, pouring the contents of his wallet into the juke box. So this was why he liked New York - no one except the bartender paid the slightest bit of attention to the two pop stars slowly getting pissed by record machine. People noticed my famous companions, of course, but of course they were far too cool to blow their apathetic New York exteriors by something so trendy as a display of fandom. They'd gossip behind my back of course, I thought with a deep groan, but they'd never dream of saying anything to our faces.

Damon looked around curiously, as if drinking in the surroundings with his eyes. I couldn't imagine how the place looked to him - if he took the fake pine paneling and backwoods vibe to be authentic rather than carefully contrived in the middle of the Lower East Side. "So, Can you get anything to smoke around here?" he finally asked with rather too knowing a look.

"There's a cigarette machine in the back room," I replied, wide-eyed, exaggerating my innocence just to wind him up.

"I didn't _mean_ tobacco."

I rolled my eyes as I cast my gaze around the room. For fucks sake, they were pop stars, couldn't they source their own drugs? Surely they had minions and lackeys whose jobs it were to find drugs for them? But apparently not, as two pairs of eager eyes turned towards me. "Let me see what I can do..."

Although I'd been paranoid I might have to go all the way to Brooklyn and back to find someone who was holding, I lucked out fairly quickly. Arthur's mate Ben was sitting at the bar, who introduced me to a couple of trustafarian dudes in the corner, who lead me out into the alley behind a nearby bodega, and after a knock on a small window and cash handed over, I returned to the Lakeside with a nickel bag tucked into the change purse of my handbag.

"Come on," I urged as I returned to our table, gesturing with my head towards the ladies' toilet.

"What? Where?" asked Damon, reluctant to give up his seat now that the bar was starting to get rather crowded.

"Well, we can't exactly smoke it at the table, can we? New York is liberal, but it's not that liberal."

I knocked on the door of the ladies' to check it was unoccupied, then pushed the lads inside, ignoring the looks from the other patrons. If more than one person was crowding into the tiny bathroom, it could only ever be for one of two things. Just my luck that this assignation involved illicit drugs instead of illicit sex, but with Damon sitting on the sink and Alex crushed up against me, I was trying very hard not to think about that. Digging rolling papers out of the bottom of my bag, I rolled a thin but serviceable joint and sucked at it hungrily, feeling the nervousness dissipate as I handed it to Alex.

As we finally spilled, giggling, out of the bathroom in a cloud of smoke, someone I knew called out "Going to dance, Kate?" 

"But the sign up there specifically prohibits dancing," observed Damon. 

"Oh, that's just a technicality for the cops. No one actually pays any attention to it," I shrugged, moving towards the jukebox. "Come on, Alex - let's dance." 

"I do _not_ dance," Alex replied, trying unsuccessfully to maintain his composure despite Damon's ribbing.

"Je veux danser..." I protested, trying to drag him over, but he resisted. Although Damon and I were both on giggly highs, Alex seemed to sink into himself when he smoked, his eyes slitted.

"I'll dance with you," offered Damon gallantly, stumbling upright. "What song would you like to hear?" 

"Strychnine, honey, Yeah! Yeah!" I sang back. "The Sonics!" Soon we were leaping up and down in time to the music, accosting passers by and trying to get them to dance with us. But unfortunately, soon Damon accosted the wrong person, and we were out on our ears. 

"I don't understand - no one seemed to mind when you made them dance with you," he protested sadly. 

"Well, I know better than to try to do the frug with the owner!" 

"Oh. Well, there have to be dance clubs in this city. What about these killer club kids we keep reading about..." 

"I refuse to be caught dead in a place like that!" I snorted. 

Damon looked genuinely disappointed. "Oh."

"Back to Crash, then," suggested Alex. 

"No!" slurred Damon forcefully. I hadn't realised just how high he was, on top of the already messy brandy drunk. "I'm enjoying this! This is the first time I've been able to walk about in total anonymity like a normal human being in I don't know how long!" He turned back to me. "Are you _sure_ you want this?" 

As I stuttered to understand the question, let alone formulate a reply, Alex interjected "Fine, Kate, where else can you take us?" with a deep sigh. 

"What's the matter?" I asked as Damon ran out ahead of us. I felt the evening slipping away from me with a sad sense of inevitability.

Alex shrugged and shook his head. I was getting used to that gesture. "He doesn't hold his liquor very well. We'll be scraping him off the pavement and into a taxi before long." 

"You've done this before, I take it."

"Well, it's a bit of a role reversal," Alex sighed as he summoned a passing taxi. 

"What?" I stuttered. How did he know? For years I'd been dreaming of the rarefied air of their upper echelons of the charts and their private drinking clubs, and here they were envying my dirty, anonymous dive bars?

"It's not usually me doing the babysitting!" Alex sniped. Oh. So he was talking about his relationship with his singer.

"So why did you bring him, then?" I hissed back. I hadn't intended to come out quite as nasty as it sounded, but the words had a razor blade quality even Alex noticed. For a minute, he stared at me curiously, as if he was trying to appraise me. 

"I'm taking him back to the hotel," he informed me, then called to his companion. "Damon... Come on!" 

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, a fantastic place," Alex assured him as they bundled into the cab. 

"Isn't Katie coming?"

Alex turned and looked at me pointedly. "Is Katie coming?" 

"I... I... I don't think so." Alex shook his head and the cab pulled away from the curb. As I watched it drive away, I could have kicked myself, but somewhere in my heart, I knew I'd done the right thing. Damn, I could have gone back to the hotel with them... no, don't think that way. Ever since I was old enough to know what pop music was, I'd wanted to be the group, not the groupie. Who knows what I'd just turned down, but I kept telling myself it was for the best. So why didn't it feel like it as I walked the long blocks back to the subway? 

\-----------------------

The next morning, Doris cast an inquiring look towards my bedroom. "So how was your date? Should I put on a dressing gown?" 

"Don't bother - it wasn't a date."

"What do you mean?"

"He brought along a friend."

"Oh no..." 

"Damon. It's not exactly a date when you drag along your band members is it? All he wanted was a damn tour guide!" 

"Ouch," consoled Doris. "Phone's ringing..." 

"Let it ring." 

The answering machine clicked and picked up. "Kate..." I recognised the deep male voice, but didn't move. "Kate, are you there? Are you awake? Oh well, I guess not. It's just Alex... erm, I wanted to apologise for last night - you were a pretty good sport, but... Oh well, call me when you get a..." 

I picked up the phone. "I'm here." 

"Good - I wanted to ask if you were free tonight. I'll take you to dinner," he offered. 

"Erm..." I hesitated. Perhaps I was over-reacting - actually we'd had fun last night, if I ignored the disappointment of the evening not being what I expected. 

"No Damon, I promise," he added, by way of enticement.

I laughed. "He wasn't that bad." 

"Well, you certainly left a favourable impression on him. He wants to go drinking with you again..." 

"Not tonight," I pleaded. 

"No, when you next visit London," he laughed. "He's a bit hung over right now, but he says hullo... So about dinner. Where do you recommend?" 

I was less nervous about dinner than I'd been about drinks the previous night, as some of the intimidation was wearing off, and I'd made sure that I'd picked my favourite and most familiar restaurant. But I was still a nervous wreck as I opted for the super-sexy dress. This time, I made sure I was ten minutes late, and noted with some satisfaction the nervous look on Alex's face before I walked up. 

"Waiting for someone?" I asked as I swung into the seat opposite him. Damn, these basket chairs were quaint, but Alex must be getting a spectacular view of my legs. 

"You look very nice," he observed, and I blushed, trying to yank the dress over my thighs without being too obtrusive. Well, at least he had noticed - that much was flattering. "What a strange place - Ethiopian?" I nodded. "Oh, that's right - Your family lived in Africa, didn't they?"

"They didn't live anywhere near Ethiopia. Africa's a big continent, Alex."

"No, of course not. Where was it? Namibia? No, wait, South Africa."

 "Well done. I can't believe you paid attention."

"Always pay attention, but if you make it seem like you're distracted, people let more interesting things slip," he imparted with a wink. "So, with your international background, how the hell did you end up growing up in New York?" 

"Erm, well, I didn't grow up here, I grew up in London and California and a boarding school in Massachusetts. I don't know how I ended up in New York, really. I ran away. Well, not really. Sort of..." I couldn't believe he cared. Why was he asking? "Where _else_ are you going to run away to if you're an international misfit? I mean, how did you end up in London?"

"You're changing the subject, Katie." 

"Why do you keep calling me Katie? My name is Kate." 

He smiled that radiant, mischieviously boyish grin. "I like Katie." I looked away, trying to cover my blush with my hands. "You still haven't answered my question." 

"I was running away. Do I have to go into details?"

"Running away from what?" 

"It's something I do whenever I feel cornered. When I feel life gets too much for me. When too many people get too demanding of me," I snapped. 

"You picked the wrong career if you don't want people demanding things of you." 

"I didn't mean like that... I meant... emotionally." 

Alex shook his head slowly. "You haven't got into it very far, have you? Fame can be exceedingly deceptive. It _is_ emotionally demanding. You think that it's going to fix some inadequacy deep inside you, but it's like any other addiction. Rather than filling it, it only ends up exacerbating it."

"You speak from experience?" I observed. 

"Perhaps. You can end up like an empathy sink, turn it on and pour it out, then turn it off again." He stared at me strangely, then looked away again. "Do you want to get a bottle of wine? What's this honey wine stuff?" 

"Oh, it's delicious," I replied, glad to steer the subject back to some safe ground. "Sort of like a cross between mead and sherry..." 

"Let's get a bottle with our dinner, then. Bloody hell - we have to eat with our fingers?" 

"No, you eat with the bread. Haven't you had this before?"

"First time for everything. Don't have many first times left when you've lived the sort of life I have."

"So how do you deal with it?" I finally ventured.

"Deal with what?"

"The sort of life you have..."

"In what way?" He sure as hell wasn't going to make this easy for me.

"Success," I finally decided. Between his comments and his bandmate's, I was beginning to wonder if I should start to be worried. 

"It's a hell of a lot easier to handle than failure," he quipped, then realised I was serious. "I don't know... Talk about it with other people who are going through the same thing." 

"Do you think I'm completely mad for wanting it?" 

"No. It's what everyone wants. You just don't always get what you bargained for." 

"What did you think that you were going to do with your life? What did you want to be when you grew up?" 

Alex laughed. 

"No, seriously. What did you really think was going to happen? Did you always know that you wanted to be in a band?"

"You really want to know? I... I didn't think it was going to last, to tell the truth. Damon's been convinced from day one, but I only ever wanted to be on the television. I thought I'd go back and finish my degree - probably end up in academia somewhere. Could you see me as a university professor?" 

"Not really," I giggled. 

"Well, this is my fantasy, not yours," he sniffed. "I wanted to study French and teach literature to nubile young co-eds." 

"You _would_ ," I snorted. 

"Meaning what? That you're allowed to have a sexuality, but I'm not? Bit hypocritical, considering how we met, isn't it?" Taking a bite of his dinner, he licked his fingers for effect. 

Something inside me twisted around itself and started to squirm, but I kept a calm exterior. _'No, Mr. Jones, you are not getting me that easily,'_ I thought to myself, and smiled mysteriously, but said nothing. 

"Funny how you don't like to talk about sex with me. You seemed so keen on discussing it with the media..." 

That was it. I blushed furiously, completely losing all sense of composure. "Well, that was before I knew you..." It was easy to talk about purely theoretical sex with strangers, it was less easy to talk about sex with the intimidatingly handsome man sitting across the table, grinning flirtatiously at me from under his fringe.

Alex laughed triumphantly. "So that's what I have to do to crack your ice armour." 

"What ice armour?" I demanded. "I've never been anything but friendly with you! When you treat me like... one minute I'm your friend, the next I'm just some tourguide that rather bores you. I'm not the stupid girl I play in the NME. You of all people should know how different media portrayals are from... from the real person!" 

"I'm sorry," he apologised, but I wouldn't look at him, finishing my dinner in stony silence. "Katie..." 

"I've asked you not to call me that!" This was going utterly horribly awry. Ten minutes ago, we'd been talking like old friends. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of him, behind the affectations and the acts - and then the wall would snap up again. "It's not ice armour! I'm intimidated by ... by you, by all... this." Being reminded that I was sitting, chatting, in a restaurant, with a pop star. It still did not feel like my life. "Did it ever dawn on you that all this bluff and bravado and talking big about sex in the press is a big mask for the biggest pool of insecurity and... and... _shyness_...?"

"You? Shy? Come on, that's the oldest cliché in the book! I am the son, and the heir, of a shyness that is criminally vulgar," Alex quoted, rolling his eyes.

"Don't mock me!"

"I'm not mocking you!" he insisted, suddenly leaning forward and catching my eyes with a gaze that was impossible to ignore. Disconcertingly, whenever he wanted to make a point, he actually lowered his voice, forcing you to pay attention.

"I'm sorry... I'm not very good at this," I sighed, shredding my napkin.

"Neither am I, believe it or not," he confessed. "Christ, I've just never been very good at being _friends_ with women..." 

So there it was in black and white, plainer than I'd ever wanted to know. In his eyes, we were nothing more than friends. "Why?" I asked cautiously, trying to hide my shock and disappointment. 

He shrugged. "What do you mean, _why_?" 

"Why do you find it so hard to be friends with women? I mean, you don't seem to find much difficulty sitting around babbling about music or art or whathaveyou with me..." 

He cocked his head as if he were thinking about this for the first time. "I don't really know. It just gets complicated..." 

"For whom? You or the woman?" He leaned back in his chair and reached for a cigarette, getting it halfway to his mouth before I informed him "You can't smoke in  restaurants in New York." 

"Damn, what a stupid rule..." he sighed. "Better finish quickly." 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"Does it get complicated for me, or for the woman? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snorted, and stuffed another bite of injera into his mouth. For a minute, he chewed thoughtfully. "I never really thought about it. I guess... I was a complete geek when I was younger. I didn't have that many friends, fullstop, when I was growing up. Not so much a loner as, well, social misfit."

"Sliderule and pocket protector set?" I suggested. 

That elicited a wry smile. "Well, not quite. Erm, French Poetry and Joy Division set, more likely."

"Figures."

"La Femme was always a bit of a mystery. I mean, what on earth do women want from men?" He was already speaking of women in the third person in front of me, god I knew the signs. Next he'd be asking me for advice on his love life, asking my opinion of his problems with other women. 

"I don't know - what does anyone want? To be loved for who you are." 

"And not just for some image they've projected onto your physical attributes like a movie onto a silver screen," he snorted. The irritated tone of his voice spoke volumes. 

"Only god can love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair..." I whispered before shrugging. "Of course, there's always a certain amount of that to start with in any relationship. It's the way our brains are wired. You're projecting things yourself, onto a blank silver screen that happens to _look_ like your ideal. You've heard of the anima archetype..." 

"Utter psychobollocks nonsense, all that Freud."

"It's not Freud, it's Jung. And if it's bollocks, why does it seem to apply so well to your situation with your girlfriend right now?" He sat up sharply, staring at me strangely. I had obviously unnerved him.

"Am I that transparent?" I shook my head. Playing nervously with his pack of cigarettes, he fingered them lovingly. 

"I'm nearly finished."

"Take your time... I'll go outside." 

He stood up, unfolding his long frame from the tiny chair, then loped to the door to let himself out. No longer nervous of his critical gaze, I lapped up the sauce with the rest of the bread and stuffed it in my mouth, no longer caring if it appeared unladylike. After a few moments of this, I was startled by a tap on the window. Out on the sidewalk, Alex was watching me, laughing good naturedly. 

"I was just waiting for you to do that!" he shouted through the glass. 

I blushed deeply, then cracked open the window, suddenly feeling very bold. "Alex, let's promise each other something now. Let's agree to never pretend to be anything other than our true selves around each other." 

"Agreed." As he moved closer to the window, he smiled such a radiant smile that I thought I was going to melt. "Give me a piece of that injera, yeah?" I reached through the window and held it out to him, but rather than taking it from me, he leaned his head over and swallowed it off my fingers. A tiny flicker of electricity passed between our eyes as I could have sworn he intentionally caught me with his tongue, but I shook my finger at him, and pulled my hand back in. 

"Stop it, Alex," I told him in my firmest no-nonsense voice, as if to compensate for that jelly-like feeling in my knees. I wasn't going to be his female foil for whatever was going wrong in his relationship. I just wasn't going to do it. He'd said it loud and clear. Friends. I could hope for no more.

After that awkward exchange, it was as if something that had been hovering over us for his entire visit had been lifted. Soon, we were laughing and joking on our way from the restaurant to another seedy Lower East Side bar. My eyes flashed as I goaded him to do tequila shots, and he tried to keep up with me.

"No one out-drinks me," he insisted, eyeing the tequila with apprehension.

"Come on, then, bottoms up," I countered, picking up the drink and challenging him with my eyes. "Or are you some kind of lightweight?"

"Oh, mate... I wish you hadn't said that." 

"Lightweight," I repeated, grinning.

For a moment, Alex seemed to curl in on himself like a reluctant child, then reached out and took the drink. "Right. Bottoms up." The fiery alcohol seemed to hit my veins almost immediately, wrapping me in its warm embrace as Alex and I staggered together like conspirators.

The rest of the evening passed in a hazy but comfortable drunken conversation, huddled together in a booth in a dark corner of the bar. His face loomed so close, I found myself leaning on him without even realising. 

I didn't even realise how long we'd been there until the bartender called last round. Staring at my watch in disbelief, I collected my coat and tried to stand up. Damn, I was drunk. I'd been sitting drinking and babbling with Alex for nearly six hours. What the hell had we been talking about? 

"So where are you headed?" Alex asked concernedly as we stumbled out onto Avenue B. 

"Back to Queens."

"Wherezat?" 

"Erm, two very long subways rides away... Damn, plus a very long walk back to Astor Place..." 

"An' wherezat?" I tried to explain, but he shook his head. "I'm getting a cab back to the hotel. Come with me..." 

"I can get the train at 42nd..." I reasoned, climbing into the taxi next to Alex. He told the driver the address of the hotel, and the streets slid by. "Ooooh, don't do that, it makes me feel not very nice," I moaned as the cab lurched sickeningly across the Avenue. 

"Are you going to be sick? Now who's the lightweight?"

"Don't you throw up in my car!" warned the driver from up front. 

"I'll be fine," I assured them both. Great - now Alex was going to think I was incapable of holding my liquor after all the teasing and the bravado. Please, let me at least make it back home before the headspins and the inevitable nausea. "This is 42nd... stop over there by the subway," I directed the cabbie. 

"Come back to the hotel with me," offered Alex. 

"No!" I exclaimed indignantly. 

"No, not like that. I'm just worried about you." The light-hearted teasing had given way to a genuinely concerned expression. "You shouldn’t be wandering around this city in the state you're in."

"This city is my home, I stumble around it all the time in worse states than this!"

"I'll get you a cup of coffee to sober you up..." he offered.

I looked back and forth nervously between the entrance to the subway and Alex's puppydog eyes. Finally, with a sigh, the cabbie pulled away from the curb. "I don't care about yah lovelife, but I ain't got time for this. My shift finishes in ten minutes - the girl can go back to dah hotel with you!" 

The hotel restaurant was closed, so I reluctantly followed him up to his room. Flopping himself down on the bed, Alex kicked off his shoes then dialled room service. 

"They'll send it up to us in about 15 minutes," he told me after a short conversation. "Make yourself comfortable." 

I settled down on the edge of the sofa, but soon found it so comfortable that I leaned back and rested my head against the soft leather. _'I'll just close my eyes for a minute until the coffee gets here,'_ was the last thing I remembered thinking. 

I was woken the next morning by the phone. That much wasn't unusual, but the male voice that groggily answered it was. My eyes snapped open, but it took them a few moments to adjust to the unfamiliar surroundings. Of course... Alex's hotel room. I was still lying on the unbelievably comfortable couch, but he had spread a blanket over me. 

"No, I'm just tired, I only just woke up," I heard Alex explain. 

I could hear a woman's voice crackle on the other end. "You're hung over, aren't you? Don't deny it, I know you Alex." 

"Alright, I'm hung over. I went out drinking last night - that's no big news." 

"With whom?" 

"Damon," Alex lied. 

"Don't lie - I spoke to Damon myself last night." Feeling like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation, I rose to my feet and tied to pad silently to the bathroom, but my blanket caught on the chair and jostled it. "Are you with someone?" 

A panic struck look drifted across Alex's face as I froze in mid-stride. "No, there's no one here." He turned away from me and covered the phone with his hand. "Shit..." Obviously grasping for an explanation, he ran his free hand through his hair, then lit a cigarette - he seemed unable to think without one clamped between his lips. "No, sweetie, I'm here. I just dropped my cigarette lighter. I'm just really hungover, as you've already observed. Can I call you back when I've woken up? Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. I miss you..." With a deep sigh, he put the phone back in its cradle. "Oh, crap..." 

"I'm sorry," I ventured. "I feel like this is my fault. I knew this wasn't a good idea... Why didn't you wake me? I should have gone home hours ago..." 

"I didn't feel right, letting you brave the subways my yourself at that hour of the night. Besides, how the hell was I supposed to know she'd call?" 

"I take the subways all the time, in much worse conditions." I reminded him. "That was your girlfriend, I take it..." He nodded. "What did she want?" 

"I don't know - god knows what Damon told her last night about where I'd gone... with whom..." 

"I should go," I stuttered. 

"You didn't drink your coffee." He pointed to the table, where the decanter sat on its hotpot. "It's probably still warm. Stay and have a cuppa with me."

"Alex, I really don't think that's such a good idea. Call your girlfriend back," I retorted with what I hoped was casual insouciance rather than bitter disappointment. Down girl, watch that jealousy. He's already going to be in enough trouble with her for something he hasn't even done - you don't need to make it worse. 

"You're right," he sighed, flopping back on the bed. As the covers slipped from his bare chest, my legs seemed to grow so much heavier that it was with considerable effort that I actually managed to make it to the door. 

I was hoping that I would be able to slink to the elevator and make it out of the hotel without anyone noticing, but as just as I thought I was safe, someone thrust his body between the closing doors, yelling "Hold the doors!" Damn - it just had to be Damon. For an instant, his face registered total surprise, then a knowing smile spread across his lips. "Kate!" 

I wanted to stutter out that it was not what he thought, but I merely mumbled a greeting. Perhaps a small part of me wanted him to think I had just slept with Alex, but in truth, I was just probably too tired and still too thick with the after effects of my hangover to come up with a convincing excuse, so I merely smiled and said nothing. 

"It's a shame we're leaving tomorrow - I wanted to go drinking with you again!" he burbled. "when are you going to be in London again?" 

"Erm, in another week or two, actually." 

"Oh, you'll have to drop by!" He insisted. "We'll have a ball. I'm sure Alex will be glad to see you..." He winked as I stumbled off the elevator and dug in my pocketbook for my sunglasses.


	4. Top-most of the Pop-most

Over the next few days, I was in a whirlwind of emotions. Somehow, we acquired a manager, almost by accident, it seemed, in our typical haphazard approach to stardom. We had gone out in a gang to see a friend's band at the Mercury Lounge, whooping and catcalling and making everyone jealous with our stories about the high life in London. At three in the morning, we were still all there, propping up the bar and gossiping with Amy Cooper, who managed the place, in fact, who had managed and booked bands for one venue or another in the East Village for as long as we could remember.

We liked her, and the feeling was mutual  - she had given us a chance and booked the Charms even back in the terrible days before I'd joined. Everyone had jealously whispered that it was because of our Jesus Sugarpussy connections, but the truth was, we just got along. Her family had been in show-biz for decades, her father was rumoured to be a Broadway agent or something like that. Though she could bullshit with the best of them when need be, at the bottom line, you always knew where you stood with her. Tough but honest, fun-loving but no nonsense. And she knew every word to our singles - probably cause she was the only person in New York who'd bought them.

"Come on, let me buy you a drink," she urged. No matter how much we'd seen her drink, we'd never seen her drunk. "Local girls made good! I always knew you had it in you. I'll buy you this round, then when you come back from England with a million dollars, you come back here and you buy _me_ a drink."

"A meeeeeeellion dollars!" giggled Emma, standing up to grab the bottle of whiskey from the bar and pouring herself a liberal portion.

"A million pounds," corrected Beth, who had been doing her best to cultivate a slight English accent since her return from London.

"So you're off over there soon, aren't you?" pumped Amy. "Where ya playing?" Amy knew every venue in every corner of the world, by name if not by sight, and could tell you its history and which one of her grandfather's cousins had played there back in the Vaudeville days.

"Erm, I don't actually know," confessed Maddie worriedly.

"We _do_ know, we just... can't remember them all," hissed Beth, always afraid of looking unprofessional. "The booking agent faxed over a list of our dates."

"Yeah," Emma hiccoughed. "She's just embarrassed to admit that she doesn't actually know where places like, Sheffield, and  - what are those other crazy places? Hull? What the fuck is Hull?  - really are?"

"I _know_ where Sheffield is," Beth huffed indignantly. "That's where the Human League are from."

"Who's your booking agent?" Amy demanded, with more than professional curiosity. "And make sure you get a decent road manager; you can go crazy trying to find all those little towns in the middle of nowhere. England may look like it's only five inches long on a map, but it'll take you eight hours to get from one place to another in a van!"

"Road manager?" said Beth tremulously. We were clearly out of our depth here.

"You don't have a tour manager?" asked Amy incredulously. "Fuck, who's managing you? What are they thinking?"

Nervously, the four of us exchanged worried glances before Maddie confessed, "Actually, we don't have a manager."

"We've been doing a fine job managing ourselves, thank you," sniffed Beth. "I mean, between Joe Forester and our publicist, do we really need one?"

"Oh, brother..." Amy slapped her head theatrically. "You have a publicist before you even have a manager? Man, do they do things backwards in England. I tell you what. You lot come back here tomorrow afternoon, early, before the bar opens, and you bring every _scrap_ of a contract that you've got, from your booking agent, from your record company, from your _publicist_..." She said the word so indelicately, as if she were chewing a piece of gristle. "And you bring it to me here, say around 2pm tomorrow, and I'll go through it with a fine toothed comb and tell you everything _else_ you've neglected to ask."

We turned up the next afternoon, hungover, but worried, Maddie clutching the overstuffed concertina file into which she'd stuffed everything over the past two years, from press clippings and Village Voice listings to our record contracts and tour itinerary. It seemed we'd been so blindly ambitious, learning the game as we went along, that we'd just stumbled in where angels feared to tread.

An hour and a half later, as we clustered round a table at the back, sipping coffees, four heads turned expectantly and breathlessly towards Amy as she slipped her glasses off her nose and eyed us carefully, as if considering something.

"It's not as bad as I feared," she finally pronounced, and there was the audible hiss of four relieved exhales. "At least someone in this band has the good sense to keep accurate records."

Maddie nodded excitedly. "I learned a lot from watching what Carl went through when the Jesus Sugarpussy was breaking up."

"Your record contracts are surprisingly equitable. You're lucky. Your PR is immaculate. Good job. Your booking agent, however, is a total fucking crook. We're firing him the moment this tour is over."

"We?" repeated Beth cautiously.

Amy folded her glasses and leaned forward, resting her arms on the table in front of her. "I'll be honest with you. I've been in the Business for 15 fucking years, and what am _I_? A glorified bar manager. Right now, _you're_ struggling to keep track of everything you're supposed to be doing, and the bigger you get, it's only going to get worse. You shouldn't be dealing with booking agents and managing your own tours - you should be concentrating on what you do best, which is making pop music. We can make each other's lives easier. I want to see the world, and you're going there, so I'll cut you a deal. A standard manager's contract is going to ask for 20 percent, but I'll do it for 15. If we have a deal, we shake hands now, draw up a contract when you speak to your lawyers, and I get on the phone now to this fucking promoter in Oxford and get you a decent guarantee."

Looking round the table, all she saw was four mouths open in perfectly round O's, heads nodding like the toy dogs in the back windows of gypsy cabs.

With Amy on board, preparations for our tour had begun in earnest. We didn't just have itineraries, we had hotel bookings and maps and hired equipment, and a faxed over photo of the giant red van that was to be our home for three weeks.

"Look at the size of that damn thing, there's no way I'm driving that," Maddie complained. "English traffic scares the shit out of me as it is."

"Don't worry, you're not. I've hired you a roadie who doubles as a driver - and get this, he even does sound," Amy informed us. Our own sound man? No more hellish soundchecks with idiots who wanted to run my bass direct? We were moving up in the world.

There was no more lack of communication with the record company, as Amy spoke to them nearly every day, and relayed the results to us via the mobile phone which seemed to have permanently sprouted from the side of her head. Not only had she sorted out just our touring itinerary, but our recording schedule as well, booking us a studio in New York to start work on our album a few weeks after the tour. After a few phone calls and some favours called in, we were even booked to make our second video, not with a borrowed video camera and our film student friends, but on a sound stage up in Astoria. We called all our friends in the NYC music scene and offered them cameos with the specific intentions of making them all jealous and lording it over them.

For a week, my life was turned upside down, a mess of cameras and make-up and lighting equipment. But at least it kept my mind off Alex. Even though I barely had time to think about what had happened, every now and then the image of him lying on that bed, the sinewy muscles in his forearms standing out as he put his hands to his face. Who was I kidding? Nothing had happened. Or was that the problem? For several days, I didn't dare to check my mail in front of my band and the crew, but once they packed up, I made a beeline for my computer. There in the inbox, was the familiar name. 

 

To: Kate@thecharms.com   
From Alex@slur.co.uk   
Subject: Oops 

Erm, have you seen the latest NME?   
I'm sorry... I had no idea.   
Oh dear.   
Call me?   
AJ 

 

Wondering what the hell he was on about, I threw on my jacket and headed downtown to the nearest record shop to pick it up. It seemed perfectly innocuous from the cover, but I flipped through it in the store just to make sure. Still nothing. Almost as an afterthought, I opened to the gossip column. 

"Damon and Alex Slur have been exploring the seamy underside of New York during their recent visit to the States, with none other than Kate Charms acting as tour guide. These all-night drinking binges have apparently incurred the ire of Alex's girlfriend, supermodel Mimi Mei." 

Rolling my eyes in disbelief, I bought the rag and immediately stormed over to Beth's apartment. "Have you seen this?" I demanded as she opened the door. 

"Seen what? Oh, that squinty-eyed prick from Radioshack on the cover again - that's an outrage," she deadpanned. "Don't worry - it'll be us, soon."

"No, look at the gossip column."

"Oh, that nonsense? Come on, you don't believe anything you read in that, do you?" she sighed as we climbed the stairs to her fourth floor walk-up. "Come in, grab your self a drink. What's got you all worked up?" Settling down in her favourite seat, she looked for the page. "Oh boy..." She paused as she read. "So which bit are you upset about? The fact that they printed it, or the fact that he has a girlfriend?" 

"I knew he had a girlfriend!"

"Well, what is it, then?" 

"This just isn't the sort of publicity I want to be starting our tour with..." 

"Oh, come on. The only bad publicity is no publicity, remember? Now's a strange time to be getting squeamish. So what really happened?" 

"We drank too much, I fell asleep on his couch." 

"And you didn't tell me?" gasped Beth. You didn't _invite_ me?" 

"Nothing to tell." 

"You went out drinking with Damon and Alex from Slur and you think that's nothing?" 

"I didn't sleep with him," I protested weakly. 

"You sound disappointed," she teased. Sticking my tongue out at her, I aimed a bottle cap at her head. "Bet you can't wait to get back to England now." 

"Beth, what do I do?" I sighed, collapsing into her couch and hugging her pillow. "He's got to be the coolest guy I've ever met..." 

"So what's the story with his girlfriend, then. A model, huh? I don't see that lasting very long," she sneered. 

"He's obviously not very happy with her," I sneered. 

"Oh..? Do tell..." she probed. 

"No, I don't know anything. I guess I just want them not to be very happy. I've never even met her... well, actually, yeah, I have, but only in passing. For five minutes, at a party, where she completely dismissed me."

"When?" demanded Beth. "Details, I want details. She was with him? How did she look at him? How did he look at her?" 

"I don't know... It was at that party he had - Like I said, I barely even got a look at her," I whined. "They didn't seem to spend much time together."

"So what did she look like?" 

"I don't know... what do all models always look like?" 

"Lovely, lippy, vacuous?" she suggested. 

"That's about it. Everything I'm not." 

"Oh, stop. So she's a model. She can hardly be a rocket scientist, then. If he's half as smart and wonderful as you seem to think he is, he'll get bored with her, dump her, and then you make your move," pronounced Beth with a sharp nod. 

 

The weeks flew by in a flurry of preparation, and then we were back on another aeroplane, not just the four Charms, but Amy as well, barely concealing her excitement at being able to quit her day-job and go off on tour. We only had a few days in London, and then we were off to all the tiny towns of England 

"Twenty gigs?" Maddie had exclaimed when she found out how our tour had grown with Amy in control. "I didn't know there were twenty cities in England!" 

"There's a lot more than that - if you do well on this tour, we'll be finding out just how many!" laughed Amy smugly. Maddie merely groaned. Having Amy looking after us was making all the difference in the world. Everything was well organised, from gigs to live radio sessions, and for the first time ever, all four of us were presented at the airport with printed, spiral bound tour itineraries telling us where to go and what to do. We squeaked with excitement as we saw the plans she'd made. A Peel Session! A real, live, Peel Session! We'd joked about it on our first single, but now it was really happening! She had even booked our first BBC appearance, though the early morning wake-up call we would have to face to go on Saturday morning children's television was not exactly popular.

Our first date back in London, and our gig had sold out so quickly that we'd been moved from the smaller basement theatre up to the Astoria. The London Astoria! As I stood on the stage at soundcheck, staring up at the layers and layers of balconies stretching up towards the ceiling, I suddenly felt terrified. How were we going to fill this place with a thousand people? It didn't seem possible.

I had put Alex on our guest list and left him a backstage pass on the door, but I still wasn't expecting him to turn up backstage an hour before the show. Slightly unnerved at his presence, I broke away from the radio people I had been chatting up and grinned at him. "You made it! I didn't know if you were going to get my message that the venue had been changed!"

"I read about it in the NME," he confessed, flashing that marvellous grin as he shifted his weight from side to side. How could I have forgotten so quickly how beautiful his golden brown eyes were? "Hey - I've got a present for you," he offered, holding out a wrapped package as a gesture of greeting. 

"Alex, you didn't have to," I sighed, excitement rising as I opened it. Turning it over in my hands, I slowly ripped off the paper to reveal a musty Victorian tome on architectural detailing. "Alex..." I smiled at him and pecked him on the cheek. "However did you guess?" 

He beamed. "Well, I know you love Victoriana, and I knew you once studied architecture, so it seemed an obvious choice. Do you like it?" 

I nodded, flipping through the pages. "It's lovely, Alex." I nodded again, smiling up at him until he leaned over and wrapped his arm familiarly around my shoulders. 

"Well, you have to go on soon - I'll be out in the balcony with Damon." 

"Damon's here?" Now I was really going to be nervous. "Tell him I said hello." 

I didn't have long to think about it, as the house lights were going down, and we were being hurried towards the stage. Looking up into the balcony, I could see Alex,  with Damon and a small, dark woman I assumed was Damon's girlfriend sitting at a table up in the VIP area. No Mimi, I noted with satisfaction. Then again, she never seemed to accompany him anywhere. Catching my eye, Alex blew a kiss and waved so broadly that even Beth saw him. Grinning, she needled me and pointed. Unfortunately, the audience noticed the gesture, and when their eyes followed, a low roar went up. 

This drove Emma insane - she couldn't stand it when anyone upstaged us, so she started to jump up and down, banging violently on the strings of her guitar. Beth, perplexed, watched her for a few moments, nodding her head in time, then walked over and started the sample track. I started to show off for Alex's benefit, twirling around maniacally as I played. Emma rolled her eyes, and started to parody me, shaking her hips in an exaggeratedly sexy motion. Maddie was trying very hard not to crack up, watching us take the piss out of each other, but we managed to make it through the set without any serious flubs. 

As soon as the show was over, I was tempted to immediately run upstairs to find Alex, but the audience was screaming for an encore. We went back and did two songs, but I was itching the entire time, watching Alex. How could he do this to me? There was nothing I enjoyed more in the world than being onstage in front of a receptive audience - here I had my wish, and I was pining to be with the man in the balcony. 

My bassline ended before the song did, so while Emma played and Beth sang along with the outro, I put down my bass, waved to the audience and skipped offstage. In a minute and a half, before the song was even finished, I was walking up behind Alex and tapping him on the shoulder. Standing up, he hugged me, and pulled up a chair. 

"Now I understand what all the fuss is about," he whistled, visibly impressed. "You put on a great show." 

"Yeah, you've got fantastic energy," agreed the woman sitting by Damon. "It's nice to finally see you after hearing these two raving about you for the past month." 

"I did not rave," protested Damon. "I just said she was very nice to us when we were in New York." 

"OK, Alex was raving, then," she teased. 

"Were you?" I asked him. Suddenly, he became intensely fascinated by something at the bottom of his glass. 

"He never shuts up about you," she teased. 

"Shall we go somewhere else?" suggested Alex, rapidly changing the subject. 

"I can't be out late," I protested. "I have to be in Birmingham tomorrow, and I had a late night last night." 

Alex pulled a face. "Come on - just one drink." 

"No, Alex. This band is my job, it's my life, and I have a bloody gig to play." Through sheer force of will, I made myself get up and leave him at the table, picking my way through the drunken revellers and out to the street. 

Over the next few weeks, we watched our single climb up the charts as we hit every seamy dive from one end of Britain to the other. We were shocked to discover that England was a completely different world as soon as we got outside of London. Although I had thought that I would hate it, being so far from a cosmopolitan city, it was almost a relief to be outside the claustrophobic media whorehouse of the capital. Fans in the North were not only friendlier, plying us with drinks after shows, but they were not afraid to show genuine _excitement_ about the music. In Manchester, they actually danced, unlike the crowded, staring industry only shows in London. In the fabled Hull that no one had been able to locate on the map, the venue manager locked the doors at midnight and just let us carry on all night, playing music and drinking with the locals.

Not that it was all fun and games - we were playing increasingly energetic shows every night, then getting up at the crack of dawn to pile in the van and phone in interviews with local press only a few days ahead of the town we was leaving. Why the hell were we in York, talking about a gig in Norwich? And then in Norwich, we recorded station idents for a radio station in Wales. In phrases the presenter swore were Welsh but Emma said sounded just like Japanese swearwords. It was too much to keep track of. After a few days, the van stank of sweat and dirty socks, and empty beer bottles rolled alarmingly about our feet. Now matter how frequently we cleared out the back, empty pasty wrappers seemed to accumulate in Road Chef bags in every corner. Following a particularly vicious spat over the stereo, we'd had to work out a rota for the CD-player, so that everyone got a turn, and Emma couldn't dominate it with her unlistenable punk albums - nor Maddie with her hyperactive techno compilations. Though every now and then, we'd hit upon an album we all loved, and the four part harmony sing-along from the back of the van reminded us why we were all in a band together.

It was hard work, but it was paying off when we read the updates our publicist faxed daily to Amy. Unfortunately, that wasn't all we read. It had become an almost daily ritual to pile onto a hotel bed and read gossip columns out loud to one another, keeping score on who got mentioned the most times. So far, I was winning by a nose past Beth thanks to the little tete a tete with Alex that I had been spotted indulging in after the Astoria show. 

"Kate, you have stop this!" laughed Emma. "We're going to start to get jealous, you know. No one ever writes about us!" 

"I don't know why they're so fond of me," I sighed. 

"Cause you get drunk and do stupid things in public with famous people," suggested Emma. 

She hadn't meant it as an insult, but the comment rankled, and I started to obsess. Amy had started keeping a collection of clippings that was growing at an exponential rate, but I started counting obsessively how few of them were about our music, and how many of them were about _us_. In a hotel somewhere in Scotland, we actually saw our new video on the telly for the first time, and our spirits lifted.

After two weeks, we were well on our way to being certified pop stars. With our single now at 13 on the Network charts, we had been invited to perform on Top of the Pops. Excitement was running high - when we found out, we all jumped up on the bed and started bouncing up and down until it creaked ominously and collapsed. 

"Who cares?" laughed Beth. "We're officially pop stars now! It's practically our obligation to trash a hotel room!" 

After a quick round of phoning parents and friends, we did the first thing any young, newly successful young women would do - we ran straight to the shops to find something to wear. After months of hard work, this was the payoff. When the band had been starting out, there had been weeks that I lived on ramen noodles so that I could afford rehearsal or a new set of strings. Now, with a single on the charts and money to burn in our pockets, for the first time in our lives, it was a fantastic high to be able to walk into a shop and buy anything we fancied. 

We drove down to London overnight, checking into our hotel in the early hours of the morning, and trying desperately to catch a few hours of sleep before the show. Too wound up with excitement to sleep, we were bustled off to the BBC on only a few hours of fitful rest. Dazed and disoriented, we arrived at the main entrance of the giant gleaming white building in Shepherds Bush, only to discover that we were at the wrong place. We weren't supposed to be at the front door, we were supposed to load in through the back of the studio round the back somewhere. Sighing and climbing back in the van, we obediently trooped round the back, but we couldn't seem to find the right studio. Just as Amy was getting out her phone to ring someone and demand that a search party be sent to meet us, a swish looking van, stuffed with equipment and scruffy looking musicians, swung around the corner and sailed up to the one entrance we hadn't checked yet.

Beth and Emma would have stood there all afternoon arguing, but I jumped out of the door and followed the other van, accosting its passengers as they emerged onto the pavement. "Excuse me, is this the load-in entrance to the soundstage?" I demanded, smiling as sweetly as possible to soften the intrusion. This caused quite a stir, as the scruffy looking hippies twittered and giggled at each other, oogling me as if I were a visitor from another planet, not merely another band. Christ, did they not have female musicians in England? Then again, without my guitar case, maybe they'd mistaken me for an overly eager groupie. "My _band_ is supposed to be taping a Tops Of The Pops appearance," I explained testily. "Do we have the right door this time?"

One of them  - a thin, boyish looking man with an unruly mop of white-blond hair, his patrician good looks foiled by patched low-rider flares and a striped shirt - shuffled towards me and smiled a broad, placid, stoned grin from underneath purple-tinted sunglasses. "First time at the Beeb?" I assumed that he was a pop star from the guitar case he was carrying, but he could easily have passed for a model.

"Does it show?" I shrugged back, staring back at him challengingly.

He looked around, noticing the other three girls standing by our van, unloading our gear onto the pavement. "Does your _band_ need any help carrying equipment?" Despite his ragged clothes, his accent was cut-glass posh.

I couldn't tell if he was teasing or not, so I shook my head. "We're fine, thank you. We've got roadies."

"Well, yes, this is the _stage_ door," he assured me with a hint of patronisation. He might be good-looking, but what a snobbish cunt. I was looking forward to blowing his rag-tag gang of hippies off the stage.

"Thanks." Turning my back on him, I strode off to rejoin my band. "Yes, this is the right place. In we go..."

Inside the studio we unloaded our hired amps, and our shiny new hired drumkit, all wrapped up in professional looking flight cases. As I fiddled with the Ampeg which had been my bass cabinet for the past few weeks, I wished that I had the money to buy one of my own. Then again, if the single did well, maybe I could. Across the room, the blond pop star boy observed us unpacking it, and suddenly he didn't look so cocksure. Yeah, put this in your pipe and smoke it, babe, our equipment is nicer than yours, I thought to myself as I looked at Emma's pristine AC-30s then across at their scruffy Marshalls. As we set up and started to soundcheck, he ambled over, watching me somewhat more humbly. 

The cavernous soundstage had previously been intimidatingly huge while empty, but now, with the studio audience filing in, the atmosphere warmed a bit. But I had no time to contemplate it, as the cameras were soon rolling, and the unctuously friendly presenter was already introducing us. 

"And as a special treat tonight, all the way from New York City, the latest all-girl sensation to tear up the pop charts. Playing their second single, here's the Charms." 

We knew the act so well that it was becoming almost a routine. The sample track started, Beth with her back to the audience, pounding on the MiniMoog, Emma shyly concentrating on her strings as I hammed it up, doing a little dance with my bass. The drums would slam in, Beth would spring to life and Emma would thrash about, barely making it to the mic stand in time to add her vocal on the chorus. It was becoming second nature to us, we did it so much, but the crowd still loved it. We acted up for the camera's benefit, exaggerating our already tough image, Beth casually dropping cigarette ash on the studio floor, occasionally forgetting to remove it from her mouth before she tried to sing. It may have been a bit rough, but at least it showed we weren't miming. 

After a celebratory swig of booze, we filed back into the studio to watch model blond pop star's band play. "What are they called?" Emma demanded rudely. "Crest? What, like the toothpaste?"

As we watched their bassist don a medieval style helmet, and the keyboardist haul a banner displaying large coat of arms in front of his organ, Beth started to giggle. "No, I think they mean, Crest as in, knights in shining armour."

"What is this fucking sub-Kinks fucking nonsense?" Emma sputtered as a brass band started to oom-pah in the background. "Brit-pop fucking shit."

Model blond pop star moved to the front of the stage and struck a pose. He'd swapped his ragged striped top for a velvet shirt with enormous trailing cuffs which I thought looked pretty impressive, but obviously made posing dramatically easier than playing his guitar. "They're really good-looking, though."

Beth and Maddie rolled their eyes while Emma cracked up so loudly that a man with a clip-board shushed us. The drummer counted in, then they launched into jangly retro-rock that sounded like a singalong from the Beatles Songbook, as the guitarist worked his wah-wah pedal in a fake George Harrison sitar stylee. Model blond pop star boy walked up to the microphone and held his hand aloft dramatically, trailing velvet robes like a wizard as he started to sing.

"We're psychedelic Knights in a feudal fantasy, I'll be your champion in trial by combat, if you'll be my Fairy Queen, yeah!" he chanted with a completely straight face as the drums pounded like charging horses.

"This is absolute and complete _wank_ ," Emma snorted. "This is worse than Hawkwind."

"Hey, I like Hawkwind," I  protested.

"You would."

"I dunno, I kinda like them," Beth interrupted. "They sound exactly like those terrible 60s records that Kate's always playing when we DJ."

"Yeah, this could totally be, like, a Lemon Pipers or an Edison Lighthouse B-side," I agreed. "You just don't like 60s garage psych."

"Hey, I like 60s garage," Maddie protested. "I love the Stooges and the MC5, but Emma is right. This is derivative sub-Beatles 60s wank."

I shrugged and caught blond model boy's eye, smiling at him from under my fringe as he tortured a blistering psychedelic guitar solo from his pink paisley Telecaster. "Don't care, they're fucking beautiful."

Emma started to giggle uncontrollably again. "My friends, we are seeing an ugly vision of the future. This is what our band would sound like if Kate got her way."

"Shut up," I snorted, punching her in the shoulder.

The song seemed to be ending, they keyboards and bass fading out, but the drummer suddenly broke into a marching drumbeat, as the others stood to attention. As the guitarist started to fingerpick a familiar folk melody, the keyboardist pulled out a small tin flute and started to pipe along. "This is an old folk song from the land of my fathers," the blond pop boy shouted. "Join in if you know the words..."

Emma was infuriated. "Now traditional English fucking folksongs? Who are they, the Fairport fucking Convention? Is there any tired and played out fucking 60s hippies cliche they're not going to trot out? Why don't they drag out some bongos and play Kumbaya while they're at it?"

"Don't. Give them. Ideas," hissed Maddie.

"How are we supposed to sing along?" protested Beth, who always loved a big sing-along chorus. "This isn't even in English, this is in Welsh or something."

"Japanese swearwords," Emma insisted. "It all just sounds like swearing to me."

The sing-along fizzled out, but the man with the clip-board waved his hands, exhorting the audience to clap harder. I felt more than a hint of vindication. They weren't bad, but their audience response was nowhere as enthusiastic as our had been. It was obvious that we had completely upstaged them and stolen the show. Even when we were jet lagged and hung over, following The Charms was not an enviable task.

At the end of the programme, as we all got together and waved for the cameras, I turned and found the blond man standing at my elbow. "That was really good," he complimented, almost as an apology.

"Thanks. You weren't so bad yourself," I shot back, through clenched teeth, smiling and waving for the camera. "What's your band's name again?" I added with more than a hint of condescension, just to remind him I hadn't forgotten his previous attitude.

"Ha hah," he laughed, as if it had been a joke. "So what are you girls doing after the taping? Are you going to watch the show on Friday?"

"Of course we are. Our record company is throwing us a listening party. Destructive Records, maybe you've heard of them?" I sneered.

The blond man let out a hearty laugh, attaching himself to our party as we shuffled out. "Well, wah-hey - you're in with the in crowd, now, aren't you?" 

"Except now the in-crowd goes where _we_ go," I teased arrogantly as manhandled my bass case into the back of our giant red tourvan. It was a bit shabby and road-worn, but I noticed with a hint of satisfaction that it was bigger than theirs. "Would you like to be my plus one?" I offered, amused that the shoe was on the other foot, now I was the pop star and he was the groupie. 

" _Your_ plus one?" He smiled mysteriously. "What makes you think I'm available?"

I laughed, borne up on a wave of post-gig arrogance as I glanced down at his hands. "No wedding ring."

"Oh... right." His smile twisted wryly as his right hand twitched towards his left ring finger, as if feeling for something that was no longer there. "I'm divorced, actually," he confessed with a slightly deflated air. "I'm still not quite used to this... being single thing."

"Don't worry." I felt suddenly a burst of compassion or maybe even pity for him. "I'm as new at this pop star thing as you are at the single thing. Have your manager call our publicist, I'm sure we can get you on the list."

"How about you just give me your phone number?" he suggested.

"Phone number? I don't even know my own phone number," I laughed. "We're staying at the Swiss Cottage Marriott. Give us a ring."

 

We all laughed triumphantly in the taxis over to the party, passing spliffs and bottles of champagne around. Our entourage had picked up a few extra members, as the blond man from the taping had turned up at our hotel. What was his name? Something silly and posh and reeking as much of the upper classes as his clothes reeked of patchouli and pot-smoke. Tarquin? Ptolomey? No - _Tristram_ \- that was it! Buoyed up by the bubbly and the pot, I decided I liked Blond Mopped Poster Boy, hanging on his arm and giggling, pulling him off for urgent surreal conversations about the mystical numerological significance of Sesame Street. Even the normally reclusive Maddie looked like she was enjoying herself for a change. Emma has learned how to deal with it by drinking herself into a gruff sociability.

The cabs stopped on a side street in Soho, and we all tumbled out. By now, our group had somehow swelled to nearly ten people, and I was so drunk that I let Model Blond Poster Boy guide me out of the car on his arm. A flashbulb went off as we floated through the entrance to the club, but I barely paid attention - none of this was really happening. Panic gripped me as the doorman stopped and told us the party was invitation only, but suddenly Amy appeared and we were waved in. 

The first person we ran into was Damon. He threw his arms around me and kissed me on the cheek like an old friend - apparently I wasn't the only one more than slightly buzzed. "Just watch out tonight - Alex's girlfriend is here," he warned in a whisper. "But it looks like you already have a date," he added somewhat disdainfully, noting the proprietary air with which Blond Pop Boy clung to my hand.

"I know Alex has a girlfriend," I snorted.

"Whatever you say - just watching out for you..." The rest of the band were climbing up the stairs, but Amy rescued them for the over eager doorman. 

"What time is it on?" I hissed to my companion. "Are we late?" 

"No, we've got time to get drinks," he assured me. "Ooh, apparently the house special is absinthe. Fancy rotting your brain the Victorian way?" Despite his hippie slacker appearance, after a few drinks, his vowels had grown even more posh and plummy, his boarding school roots clearly showing through the affected dirt.

"Bloody hell, what next? No doubt soon, laudanum will be sweeping the Dean Street Massive," I laughed, trying to decide if I really wanted to drink something medically proven to cause madness. Why not? After all, my life was so mad already, what difference did a few ounces of wormwood make? Another drink was the last thing I needed, but I found myself accepting one anyway. 

As my blond boy pushed his way up to the bar, Alex swept out of nowhere and embraced me warmly, practically picking me up off my feet. "Hey! You found us! I'm so glad to see you..." He seemed reluctant to let go of me, keeping his arm fondly around my shoulder as he lead me over to the other room. "We have the telly on in here." 

"All this for us? Surely you're bored with this nonsense by now." 

"Well, you don't have your first TOTP appearance every day," he laughed. "Our mates threw us a party for us when we had ours. Damon was tripping his face off, waving a plastic chicken about the stage. We were mortified when we saw it. So actually, it's kind of amusing to see someone else going through it," he shrugged. 

"Oh, here you are," said a voice at my elbow, pressing me with another glass of wine. 

"Cheers." I accepted it and turned back to Alex. "Have you met my date for the evening?" I laughed, taking Poster Boy by the arm. 

"Oh." Alex's face darkened like a stormcloud. Glowering at my date, he dropped his arm from my shoulders. "Hello. Well, enjoy the party - I better make sure the telly's on the right channel. They'll have it on Sky Sport given half a chance." 

As he wandered off, I stared after him for a moment, a little confused by his chilly reaction, but I chose to ignore it and turned back to Pop Poster Boy. But Alex refused to let it drop, glaring at us from across the room. 

"Hey, everyone - it's on," called Maddie from the other room. Out of nowhere, hundreds of people appeared and tried to file in. Damon appeared on my other elbow, grabbing me excitedly and pointing at the screen. The video Beth was pouting mightily at the camera, causing a stream of giggles from the real Beth on the floor in front of me. Emma came flying into the room and propelled herself between the bodies, flinging herself onto the floor next to Beth and hugging her excitedly. 

"I hope someone's taping this, cause I won't remember this tomorrow," I laughed into Blond Boy's ear. 

We watched in stunned silence, punctuated only by our giggles whenever any of us did anything particularly obtrusive. At the end of the clip, the room exploded in applause and congratulations. Record company people were everywhere, trying to pull us into conversations we tried desperately to escape. Since I couldn't get away, I sent Pop Boy off to get me a drink. 

After a few minutes, I was distracted by an altercation back at the bar. Alex was standing facing Pop Poster Boy, obviously quite intoxicated. "I believe I was first," he insisted. I couldn't hear Poster Boy's reply, but he seemed to be trying to quiet Alex. "No, I was waiting here - you just pushed your way in where you didn't belong! Now wait your turn," Alex hissed back, becoming increasingly annoyed. In another second, he looked like he was on the verge of pushing Poster Boy, but Poster Boy wisely stepped back, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. 

Beside me, Damon raised an eyebrow and looked curiously back and forth between Alex and the model blond boy before fixing me with a mischievous grin. "What the hell are you doing, hanging round with that chancer?"

"Him? Oh, he's just some dirty hippie we picked up, hanging round on Top of the Pops," I laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension.

"You know that dirty hippie's father owns half of Cornwall."

"The miserable half?" I laughed. It was hardly news to me that a carefree hippie could be a total trustafarian.

"The massively over-entitled half," Damon whistled back through gritted teeth.

I was about to write it off as sheer envy, that someone else's band was daring to get more attention than Slur was, when there was the clatter of raised voices at the other end of the room. I didn't see what had triggered it, who had pushed who, but there was a kerfuffle as Alex and Tristram grappled for a moment.

"No, I said, I've got it, it's my round," Tristram insisted with a snarl.

Alex turned back to him, narrowing his eyes. Though I could not hear his rejoinder, hissed in that low, surreal whisper of his, clearly it struck a nerve with Tristram.

"What the hell was that about," I asked Damon. "If I didn't know him better, I'd swear he was acting like he was jealous." 

Damon nodded thoughtfully. "I know him extremely well and that is precisely how he is acting." 

Shaking my head, I pushed past him and went over to rescue Poster Boy. Threading my arm through his, I pulled him away. "Come on - let's go," I hissed, casting the fisheye at Alex. 

Alex immediately looked contrite. "Don't go so soon - you only just got here, Kate." 

With all the alcohol coursing though my veins, I actually managed to hold my tongue. Instead of pushing my face right up into his and spitting _'why don't you go and find your girlfriend?'_ I merely shook my head and pulled my trophy date away triumphantly to a small courtyard behind the pub. 

"What was that about?" Model Pop Boy demanded as soon as we were outside. In the clear night air, my head felt slightly less like it was going to explode. "So what is the story with you and Alex, anyway? Were you lovers?" 

"There is no story, it was all lies and slanderous accusations. What does it matter anyways?" I dismissed. 

"Well, if that's all lies, what's the truth?" he probed. 

"Well, as they say, truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder." I shot back flippantly. 

"Depends on who's beholden, doesn't it?" 

"Sometimes the truth is so obvious, you don't even notice it," I snorted, trying to contain my anger at Alex. "Like wallpaper. Truth should be like wallpaper, really - wallpaper for the soul, right?" I babbled drunkenly, picking a sprig of ivy off the brick wall. 

With an impetuous gesture, he seized the plant away from me, played with it distractedly, twisting the leaves, then abruptly threw it onto the ground. "I always thought music should be the wallpaper of the soul."

I brightened, nodding appreciatively. "Everyone should have their own soundtrack. Just sound all around you... just tones and overtones, you peel them back and there's more layers underneath going back for centuries and you can sort of see them peeping thought like a... pal... palim... you know..." I waved my arms vaguely in the air. 

"A palimpsest?" suggested my companion helpfully. 

"Yeah, like old vellum manuscripts - the other side shows through..." 

"Or sometimes they make a mistake, so they scratch the top layer off and that becomes part of the overall design..." he added enthusiastically. "One painting over another so the original shows through." 

"There are no mistakes, there are only happy accidents!" I giggled. "It's not like a single image - more like patterns. Visual harmonies - catch it with a delay pedal, overlapping, like waves on top of one another, eroding the seashore, wiping clean the beach, but where does the sand go? It builds up somewhere, you know?"

He leaned closer, peering at my eyes. I knew what he was thinking - checking to see if my pupils were dilated by drugs. I'd smoked a little pot before the party, but not that much. "Continental drift?" he suggested. 

"Nooooo... like a sieve... it catches sands and holds them so they build up - like tiny microscopic plants catch sand, turn it into coral, into barrier reefs... compressed into sediment, back into rock again. Like white noise..." 

Suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! Insulate yourself with white noise to keep out unwanted distractions... no, turn the distractions into the focus, yeah? Then all the other nonsense becomes superfluous?" 

"But without sense, there would be no nonsense. Without truth, there would be no lies, just as without light, there would be no dark." 

He shook his head. "Dark isn't the opposite of light, it is the absence of light." 

"But some things glow in the dark!" 

"They glow in the light, too. You just don't see them cause the brighter light outshines them," he protested. 

"Precisely! The ultimate truths are obscured by the brilliant haze of common sense! Make it dark, and boom! They glow!" 

His face lit up like a candle with recognition; I couldn't believe he was following this. "Because nonsense is not the opposite of sense, it the absence of sense..." 

"And some truths glow in the dark!" I completed triumphantly. 

Suddenly feel very bold in my drunkenness, I turned around and took him by the shoulders, pressing my lips up against his. For a few moments, we kissed, grinding my tongue into his mouth, then I pulled away to gauge his reaction. 

"Wow - what was that for?" he laughed, surprised but enthusiastic.

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not." 

"So, are you coming back to my hotel?" I asked quickly. Damn, I'd waited years to say something like that. 

For a second, his eyes flashed as if he was thinking it over, then he grinned, threaded his arm through mine and pulled me out through the back gate onto the street. Stepping up to the curb, he hailed a taxi and practically bundled me into it. "I can't believe I'm doing this... god, I don't usually do things like this," he assured me, kissing me urgently. "I know it's wrong, but I don't care... I..."

"Hush!" I told him, laying my fingers over his lips. His impossibly blue eyes stared up at me with a mixture of fear and desire, then he closed his eyes and his lips parted, drawing my finger inside. 

My heart pounded as we kissed in the cab, groping each other as clandestinely as we could in the small space. The ride seemed to last forever, but somehow I found myself reluctant to actually go into the hotel when we finally got there. Despite my intoxication, some little prick of conscience kept telling me that this was a stupid thing to be doing, but I pushed it back down, pulling him close in the elevator. I fumbled with the keys to my room, grateful that we now had enough clout to pull separate rooms. 

"Come on in," I laughed. "Let's order room service! Let's get more champagne!" 

"I don't think we really need any more," he replied, pushing me down onto the mattress and climbing on top of me. 

Digging my fingers into his hair, I pulled his mouth towards mine, sucking hungrily at his tongue. He nipped and nibbled torturously for a few seconds at a time, then pulled away laughing. Letting go of his hair, I pushed my fingers inside his loose Indian shirt, sliding it off his slight shoulders, then sending my searching fingers down inside the waistband of his incredibly tight flares. For a second, he tensed, and I could see his indecision flicker across his face, but as I pushed further, wrapping my legs around his waist, all traces of hesitance slowly faded. Slowly, he started to push my dress up my thighs, over my hips, following his hands with his tongue, licking my stomach, licking my breasts, pulling them out of their lace nest to suck my nipples, flicking his tongue back and forth, rolling his eyes towards mine to smile mischeviously. 

Raising myself on my elbows, I pulled the dress the rest of the way off, kissing the top of his head, then running my tongue teasingly along the edge of his ear. With sudden urgency, he tugged at my tights, pulling them off in one not-so-graceful motion, then gradually moved his mouth lower, without taking his gaze from mine. As his tongue touched my labia, something inside me spasmed, twisting around into a corkscrew of arousal. He was probing inside, parting my lips with his, nibbling gently, brushing against me ever so softly with the tips of his teeth. His finger slipped inside me as he pressed against my clitoris with his tongue, rhythmically pushing, insistently but not forcefully, never quite crossing that fine line between exquisite sensation and pain. Gasping for breath, I twined my fingers in his hair, holding his head in place until I felt an unbearable tension building somewhere at the base of my spine. No, no, I thought wildly, this was too soon. Tensing my muscles, I clenched tightly to stop my self from coming. 

Sensing a change, he raised his head and looked up at me, his clear blue eyes questioning. I shook my head, pulling him up towards my face by the hair. He paused for a moment to slide his trousers off his hips, then slipped inside me. Raising himself up by his arms, he dangled above me, smiling beatifically, then started to move his hips, cautiously at first, then harder, his face twisting into expressions of pure unholy bliss. Tightening my muscles, I squeezed him gently, evincing a whole new realm of sensations spiralling their way up my nerve endings. As I raised myself to meet him, I kissed him again and again, running my tongue over his lips, his nose, his cheeks, pressing my lips against his eyelids. 

With a laugh and a sudden shout, almost like a cry of victory, he caught me around the waist and lifted me off the bed, clutching me close as he raised himself to his knees. Gasping at the intensity of this new angle, I clung to him, attaching myself to his neck by the teeth, nipping fiercely. 

"Relax," he whispered. "I've got you - I won't let you fall..." Releasing my hold on the tender muscles of his shoulder, I pulled back, my eyes wide as I stared into those azure pools. "Do you trust me?" 

"Hell no!" I exclaimed. 

With a wicked grin, he loosed his hold on me for a second, nearly dropping me, so that for a second, I almost felt myself fall, then quickly caught me. "Do you trust me?" 

"Never!"

Shaking his head, he leaned backwards, slowly shifting and settling until he was sitting cross legged with my body wrapped around his lap. "See? You're fine," he insisted, letting go. I said nothing, staring at him somewhat apprehensively. Whatever mood had overcome me before, it had dissipated, leaving me feeling rather strange and slightly wary, holding fast to his neck. Smiling charmingly, he leaned back, flicking his hips lazily. Against my better judgement, I found myself responding, moving in kind, delighting in the sheer physical pleasure the friction of the position brought, until the tension was too strong to fight. Holding my breath and tightening my grip around his neck, I laid my cheek against his shoulder, pushing firmly against him until my body exploded into orgasm. 

With a sharp exhale of breath, I let go and fell backwards onto the bed, allowing him to do what he liked, slamming against me for a minute or two, until he, too, let out a strangled moan. His features twisted for a moment into a face almost resembling agony, then relaxed into pure and utter contentment as he slumped over beside me, pushing my sweaty hair out of my eyes to press his lips gently against my eyelids. 

 

I woke the next morning in a wretched state, my head splitting and the pit of my stomach churning. Someone was lying next to me, their arm casually thrown around my waist. It actually took me a few moments to remember who it was as the events of the previous evening slowly threaded their way through my clouded mind. 

"Oh, god..." I moaned, raising my hand to my forehead. Poster Boy stirred in his sleep, clutching me tighter. What the hell had I done? What _was_ his name? Slowly, I realised the phone was ringing. I wanted desperately to ignore it, to pull the pillow back over my head and flip back into unconsciousness, but it would not stop ringing. Reaching out, I knocked it off its perch and picked it up. "Hello..." I croaked. 

"Are you speaking to me?" asked a familiar male voice. How the hell did Alex get my phone number? 

"Alex..." I sighed. Poster Boy started to stir next to me, opening his eyes. "Now is not a good time." 

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night," he started. 

Poster Boy sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked resentfully at the phone. "I should go," he observed. "I'm obviously disturbing something." 

"Wait..." I protested. "It's not what you think!" 

"What?" crackled Alex from the other end of the line. "What's not what I think?" 

"Alex, I'm not alone," I informed him, deciding that honestly was best. "I have to go..." I insisted, putting the phone back into its cradle. 

The look on Poster Boy's face said it all - convinced that he had just been used as some sort of sexual pawn in a jealousy game between Alex and I. "I can't believe you used me like this. Whatever is going on, it's between you and him and I want no part of it," he snorted, climbing out of bed and picking his trousers off the floor. 

I wanted to call out after him, but I stumbled over his name, so instead I just watched him collect his things and go. Damn, why was everything falling apart like this? Throwing a pillow at the closing door as he made his exit, I slumped back onto the bed.


	5. Homeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate and Alex patch up their friendship after he learns to apologise, and confesses some of his most vulnerable secrets. But when she returns to NYC with her band to record their first album, she finds that she is now homeless. Although Beth offers her a sofa-surfing spot in her hipster pad on the Lower East Side (and reveals some secrets of her own) Alex comes up with a tantalising offer of his own, when Blur tour the States.

We gathered in Beth's room for breakfast the next morning, our moods somewhat dampened by our hangovers and the knowledge that we were leaving the country on Sunday morning.

"So what the hell was up with Alex last night?" Beth demanded.

"I don't know," I sighed. "He rang to apologise this morning, but I put the phone down on him."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't be speaking to him either after the way he behaved last night..." 

"I don't know..." I hedged, trying to remember everything that had transpired the night before. My memory was fairly patchy around the edges. "I was pretty shitty to him myself..." 

"How - by bringing a date? Kate, he was there with his girlfriend! Who the hell did he think he was getting all weird and jealous over you?" Beth insisted.

So it was that obvious? "You thought he seemed jealous? But that doesn't make any sense!" I shook my head. "I don't get it..." 

"You should call him on it," Maddie suggested diplomatically. "If there's something between you two, you should get it out in the open."

I returned to my room with a heavy heart, but awaiting me was something that put me in an even worse mood - a message from Alex asking me to call; that he'd be home all afternoon. For a second, I considered leaving without even saying goodbye, but no. He might not even notice that I'd left. In my righteous indignation, I wanted him to know exactly how irritated I was at him. What I wanted to say him deserved more than just a curt phone call - I decided I was going over to his house in person to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his weird jealous game-playing.

In the cab over, I thought of a hundred different ways of putting it. "Alex, you're an arrogant prick." No - too crude. "Alex, you may be used to just pushing people around, but it won't work with me." Not forceful enough. I still didn't have the perfect phrasing as I trudged up his stairs, but I was sure it would come to me the moment I saw his smug grin. 

"Kate! This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you'd call first," he exclaimed as he opened the door and saw me. "Come in, come in." Caught off guard, he seemed uncharacteristically shabby, unshaven, with greasy hair, wearing an old pair of jeans and a scruffy sweater. Even so, he still looked unbearably lovely, his brown eyes sparkling with genuine pleasure as he grinned at me. "Do you want a drink?" he offered. 

"No, I won't be staying that long," I snapped, as if I could make up in spite what I lacked in conviction. 

Alex paced back and forth. "Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of this..." 

"We're flying back to America tomorrow. I only came to say goodbye." 

His face fell. "You're never around for very long, are you? We never get the time to catch the mistakes, right the wrongs, it's always just on to another city and we'll work it out in a later that never seems to happen."

For a long minute, we stared at each other in silence. 

"Alex..." I started, but he simultaneously blurted out "Kate..." 

"No, let me go first," he insisted. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you - and to your date - last night." 

"You were well out of order," I snapped.

"I was drunk!" he protested.

"That's no excuse! As they say, In vino veritas."

"That's Latin," he cooed. "I love it when you speak Latin to me. You can take the girl out of convent school, but you can't take the convent school out of the girl." I giggled, and the mood between us lightened. "Look, I don't want us to part on bad terms, Kate." His voice was very quiet, as if it threatened to choke at any moment. "I just wanted to tell you... erm... Well, you're one of the most amazing people I've ever met. I don't want to screw it up over some misunderstanding." 

Unable to hold back any more, I just went over to him and threw my arms around him, pressing him close and holding him for a long time. His body felt so good against mine I didn't want to let him go; not that he showed any inclination either. When I finally let go, and he pulled away, I could have sworn something brushed against my leg, but he quickly turned aside. 

"So when do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning." 

"Then we've still got the rest of the evening together, don't we? Come on, stay - have a drink." 

We sat on his couch for the rest of the night, listening to music and talking. With a little prodding, I got him to drag out old photo albums and tell me stories about his misspent youth. "Here I am when I was 16," laughed, showing a picture of a sullen youth with shoulder length hair and a black T-shirt. "In fact, I think that on my birthday. There's me and my best mate from school - We painted slogans all along the seafront. They never caught us, though we knew the police were watching us for weeks," he added proudly, flipping through the photos. "Ah, here's the day I left for art school... That's the first day I met our guitarist, Graham, you know. And here's me and Graham on summer holiday - he hasn't changed a bit, has he? Oh, har har har - here's our first ever gig. We weren't even called Slur yet, we were still called Balls Pond Road, after the street where Damon and Graham squatted."

"Now that is a crap name."

"Our record company made us change it when we signed," he giggled. "They moulded us, just like a boyband. Changed our name, got us decent haircuts and told us to take acid and find out what the world was about."

"Good advice," I shrugged, peering at the photo, recognising something of the awkward boy in the photograph as the rumpled pop star sitting at my elbow.

"If you look really hard, you can see Damien Hearse standing by the edge of the stage, smoking a fag and drinking our rider - some things never change, eh?" 

"It's hysterical to see these. I've been trying to imagine you as a miserable art student." 

"I wasn't an art student. I couldn't draw to save my life. I just wanted to go to art school cause all the best bands started in art school," he admitted. 

"And the coolest looking chicks went to art school, right?" I teased. 

Alex actually blushed at that. "You know me too well."

"I know 18-year old boys too well." 

He shook his head. "Girls weren't interested in a geeky, gangly, spotty kid like me, anyway." 

"That's still how you see yourself, isn't it? Despite the fame, the international adulation, the easy sex, you still have a hard time believing it, don't you?" 

"I didn't even have a girlfriend until I joined a band," he finally confessed, looking at me curiously, almost as if he was afraid of what I might say. "I lost my virginity the night of the first Balls Pond Road gig. This girl who wouldn't even give me the time of day when we were in class, she pulled me backstage and gave me a blow job." He sucked deeply on his cigarette as I sat in shocked silence. "So you will excuse me if I have a glimmer of a notion that it's all fake, and that it could all come crashing down at any moment." 

"Is that what scares you the most?" I asked, pouring him another glass of wine. "You think it's _all_ fake, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I dunno... I mean, what the hell? I've got more money than I could ever hope to spend. I've got girls, beautiful girls, models, just throwing themselves at me, but..." his voice trailed off. 

"But what?"

"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have brought it up. I've drunk too much wine and I'm becoming a maudlin cliché. Rock star sobbing about the emptiness of his life - honestly, what do I have to complain about?" He rearranged his face into the chirpy grin I'd seen on the cover of dozens of magazines.

"No matter how rich or how successful you are, there are still things every human being craves. Love, companionship..." 

"I've got more friends than I need," snorted Alex petulantly. "So long as the drinks keep flowing and I keep being witty and entertaining..." he paused and finished his glass of wine in one swig, then tried to pour another glass, upending the bottle to discover that the bottle was empty. "Shit... let me get another bottle from the kitchen." He was gone for few minutes, then returned with the second or third bottle of the evening - I had lost track. "I'm sorry I'm in such a rubbish mood," he sighed as he sat down next to me and started to unscrew the cork. "I must have one of _those_ kind of hangovers."

"There's no need to apologise to me," I told him, pushing my glass over so he could refill it. "So what makes you happy, then?" 

"What do you mean?"

"What makes you really, truly content?" 

He leaned over and rested his head on my shoulder. "A bottle of wine and a conversation with good friend." 

"Oh, stop it."

"I'm serious." Raising himself on one elbow, he stared up into my eyes. For a scary second, I thought he was going to lunge upwards, press his lips against mine and force his tongue into my mouth. My heart was pounding so hard that even he must have heard it, for he cocked his head slightly towards it. The silence hung for a long time, not awkwardly, as I might have expected, but warm and comfortable, like a luxurious bath. Whatever happened, I just wanted to freeze that moment in my mind and carry it with me everywhere, the weight of his body leaning against my shoulder. 

Far into the night, we sat over that last bottle of wine, just talking. We just poured out our hearts to one another, telling all our little, drunken secrets - well, all except one. Something had changed inside me; this was no longer a harmless little crush. I had fallen completely and utterly in love with the man. 

 

I woke up, stiff and hungover, still lying on his couch. At some point, I must have drifted off, but he had covered me in a blanket and tucked me in. He had made a habit of that, I noted. Climbing to my feet, I stretched, then shuffled back towards his bedroom, peeping in the door. There he lay, curled up in the corner of the bed, rolled into a tight ball, his face half obscured by the arm protecting his head. For a long time, I stood there, watching his as he slept, until I had to follow the call of my bladder. 

The toilet's flush must have woken him, as when I padded back to his room, he was sitting up. When he saw me, he smiled radiantly. "Good morning." 

"I'm sorry for crashing out on you like that." 

Shaking his head, he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, completely un-self-conscious about exposing his long legs and his marble slab of a chest. I dragged my eyes away, trying very hard not to stare at the little tiny boxer shorts he'd been sleeping in. 

"So you want a cup of tea? I can make you breakfast," he offered. "Oh, that's right - you're American. You probably want coffee. I have a machine around here somewhere..." 

"Erm... that would be great," I stuttered, wishing he would at least put on a robe or something. 

"Hey, turn on the telly... I love to watch the children's programs in the morning - there's nothing like it for a hangover. How do you want your eggs? Scrambled on toast? Or should I try for an omelette?" 

"An omelette sounds good..." 

"I've got a confession, though. Half the time when I try to make an omelette, it comes out as scrambled eggs anyway." 

"Do you mind if I call the hotel?" 

"No, go right ahead - the phone's on the table..." 

I dialled the number and asked for Beth's room. On about the fifth ring, she answered groggily. "Kate, where the hell are you? We were all going to go out to dinner last night, remember? But I turned around and you were gone." 

"I... I went out. I had to say goodbye to my friends."

"Alex?" 

"Yeah... so I'm calling to find out when our plane leaves." 

"Why?" She teased. "Was overnight not enough time with him?" 

"Cut it out! Are we leaving today or tomorrow? It's important!" 

"So what happened? Did you do the deed? Did you make the naked pretzel with him yet?" 

"Beth!"

Alex turned around from the frying pan. "What do you want in yours? Mushrooms? Onions?" 

"Sounds good," I told him, then turned back to the phone. "Beth, if you don't tell me when the damn plane leaves, I won't be on it." 

"You're no fun! Of course I was going to tell you, I just wanted to pump you for gossip first. We're leaving tonight at 6pm." 

"Tonight?" I groaned. "Ugh, and I still have to pack." 

I spent the rest of the morning at Alex's, then he called me a taxi. We stood together on the pavement, trying to think of the words to say goodbye while the meter ticked. When was I ever going to see him again? How would I live without him until I did? Well, it wasn't like I had him, even when he was around. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn't not look at him, either. I didn't want to cry, I didn't want to make a scene, I didn't know whether he would mind if I hugged him or not. I hated hanging around with the taxi waiting, but I didn't want to leave, and he made no move to ask me to.

"This is goodbye, I guess," I finally choked out, when I sensed the cabbie growing impatient.

"Don't worry; I'll see you again soon."

"Promise?" my voice sounded so small.

"I mean, we'll have to, won't we? We're going to be touring soon." He smiled weakly. "At least it now gives me a reason to actually look forward to touring the States for a change."

I squeezed his hand, then hugged him, though I didn't dare risk even a kiss on the cheek, then flung open the door and bolted into the cab before I could change my mind and stay.

 

I spent half my life on aeroplanes, it seemed, shuttling back and forth over the Atlantic the way I used to shuttle back and forth under the East River on the subway. My career may have been taking off with the momentum of a runaway train, but my life was falling apart. After dropping our equipment at the studio, I crawled back to Queens, to find that the first surprise greeting me was that I no longer had a home. 

"I need two months back rent from you or you're out of here," were the first words my housemate greeted me with. 

"Shit... but I've been on tour for a month," I protested. 

"Your stuff's been sitting here, irregardless," pointed out Doris. 

I winced at the grammar, but tried desperately to think of what to say. Two months rent was what - $800? I had pocket spending money, but there was no way I had that. "Erm..." I stuttered. "Let me call my manager and see what I can do." 

"And that's the other part of it. Look at this phone bill!" There were nearly fifty dollars worth of long distance calls to the UK on it. 

Trying to think fast, I emptied the contents of my pockets. A twenty pound note and a handful of British coinage. "Can I write you a check?" 

"Cash or certified check only." demanded Doris impatiently. "I've had enough of you, Kate. You're always late with the rent, then you disappear for months without even leaving me so much as a check! I'm sorry if I have a slight problem trusting you." 

"Here, take this against the phone bill," I told her, pressing the twenty pound note into her hand. "I have to call my manager." There was no answer on Amy's mobile, so I called Beth in a panic. "Beth, I have a problem. I need eight hundred bucks right now, or I don't have a place to sleep tonight..." 

"Oh, shit... did you call Amy?"

"There's no answer." 

"Erm... I don't know what to tell you... didn't you leave a deposit before you left on tour?" 

"I didn't think about it. For some reason, I didn't really think about coming back!" Oops, shouldn't have said that in front of Doris, who was now staring daggers at me. 

"You can crash on my couch if you need to," she offered.

"I might have to take you up on that." 

"So you weren't planning on coming back? Were you planning on telling me, so I could rent your room to someone else? I want you out of here," Doris spat.

"Doris, I've just got off a six hour flight - I'm jet lagged, I'm exhausted, can we talk about this in the morning?" 

"One more night," she conceded. "Then tomorrow morning, you are packing your bags and getting out. I'll keep your security deposit to cover the back rent, but I want the money for the phone bill before the end of the week or I will take you to court." 

Luckily, most of my few clothes were already in my suitcases, but I still had the rest of room to dismantle, and my books and records to pack into boxes. My body desperately wanted sleep, but I forced myself to stay awake and finish packing. Damn, this was the last thing I needed right now. 

As the clock wound round to morning, I stared at the wreckage of my life. Two suitcases, a box of records, a box of books, an outdated laptop computer, an acoustic guitar and a bag full of coloured saris and christmas tree lights which had been hanging on my walls. Was that really _all_ I had to show in the way of material possessions for the past five years of my life? By 25, most of the people I went to school with had mortgages on posh houses in Connecticut, with dishwashers and home stereo systems and designer clothes and all the other trappings of success. What did I have to show for myself?

_Two singles in the bloody UK pop charts_ , I reminded myself, lugging my boxes out into the hall and down the stairs towards a waiting taxi. How many other people I went to school with could boast that?

At approximately 10am, a taxi dropped me outside Beth's apartment with my pitiful belongings. "Damn, you weren't kidding, were you?" she huffed as she helped me haul them all up four flights of stairs. 

"Do you mind if I call Amy from here? Doris wouldn't let me ring a cellphone." 

"Go right ahead," she replied, waving me to the phone. After a brief chat, I managed to persuade her to find me $500 from our rapidly disappearing advance, which would at least keep Doris from taking me to court. The rest of our money had already been ear marked for studio fees, so it was unlikely I would be seeing enough to make the deposit on a new apartment any time soon. 

"Well, Beth, it looks like you're stuck with me. Shit... we shouldn't have spent so much money on the hotel in England... Oh god, and all those shopping sprees in London..." 

"I don't understand - we had plenty of money then," she whinged, pouring us cups of coffee as I curled up in a ball on the futon which was to be my new home.

"See why I wanted to stay in England? The record company was perfectly willing to spring for hotel bills, but it seems our measly rent is too much for them," I whined. "I mean, how on earth do you afford this place? Even the East Village is getting expensive as hell these days. I'd offer to kick in for rent, but..." I shrugged helplessly.

Beth shifted her weight nervously from one side to the other. "Actually, I don't pay rent here."

"What? You have New York City's only magical free apartment?" I paused, my eyes widening. "Or are you subletting from someone you shouldn't? Is this situation really illegal or something? You better warn me if I have to dodge any landlords."

"Actually, my father owns it." Beth wrapped her arms around her skinny waist, twisting defensively. "It was supposed to be temporary while I was at college, but I think he's forgotten that I'm here."

"Your father just... forgets that he owns a one-bedroom walk-up in the East Village? Can you, like, adopt me?" I teased, before looking around and noticing the dodgy wiring and the ancient fridge that hadn't been changed since the 70s.

"He owns the whole building, actually. In fact, he owns most of the block."

"Wait, what?" I looked Beth up and down, trying to take this in. Beth wasn't rich, she scrounged drink tokens and counted pennies for pints of milk, and hopped the subway barriers when times were tough, just like the rest of us. "Are you secretly a millionaire or something?"

She swallowed nervously, playing with her toes on the cracked tiled floor. "Shit. If you're living with me, you'll find out sooner or later. My father is Donald Blair."

"What?" I stuttered in disbelief. "Donald 'Billionaire' Blair is a fucking slumlord?" Then the other half of the sentence, the really important half, sank in. "Hang on. Your father is Donald Blair? Really? What the fuck are you doing hanging around with us? Shouldn't you be hanging around on a beach in the South of France? Fuck, what are you doing in a little indie band on Destructive Records? He could probably buy you a record company."

She shook her head crossly. "See, I knew you'd get the wrong idea. Everyone does, that's why I never tell anyone. And you can't fucking tell a soul, alright?"

"Does the rest of the band know?"

"Yeah. I've known Emma since I was a kid, it would be impossible for her not to know, and Maddie and Carl know, but... yeah. Not many other people do. You'll have noticed it's not in our press bio or anything."

I felt a shiver of annoyance at being left out for so long, but then realised that this meant she was finally letting me in. That odd coldness and reticence I'd felt from her when I'd first joined the band. It wasn't me; she was actually hiding a secret. "I won't tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me, I promise."

"My parents split up when I was really young, I barely know him, I see him maybe twice a year. He's been married again since then - though my mum hasn't - has two more kids. Wait, no - it's three now? I have an older brother and sister, as well, that I don't even know, I've never met. But, before you ask, no, I don't have a trust fund. He was married to my mum during his early 70s drugs phase, and doesn't exactly like being reminded of our existence. So if he forgets about this apartment and, by extension, me, well. I try not to remind him."

"Fuck. I had no idea... Oh, come here." I pulled her close, and gave her a warm hug, relieved to feel that she finally trusted me enough to tell me, but still reeling a little bit from the news. Not so much about her wealthy father, but about just trying to get my head around the emotional neglect it took to pretend that your own child didn't even exist. "Thank you so much for letting me stay, then. You really are a life saver."

"Oh, go on," she sighed, trying to search for a bright side to dwell on. "Come on, it'll be fun. Like an extended sleepover party. We had fun on tour..." 

"No offence, Beth, but the one thing I was looking forward to about getting home was being away from you lot," I deadpanned, even as I squeezed her shoulder in camaraderie. "So what do you have for breakfast?" 

"Hey, now let's get one thing clear - you stay here, you have to get your own food!" 

"Alright, alright - where's the nearest grocery?"

"Avenue A."

"Avenue A? That's half a mile away!" I repeated. "I thought Manhattan was supposed to be more convenient!" 

After a few days, I had actually started to get used to the arrangement, hanging a couple of my saris in the door between the living room and the kitchen for some privacy. By the end of the week, even Beth had started to refer to it as "Kate's Room." I think she actually liked the company, having grown used to being around people constantly on tour, after living so long by herself. 

Once we started recording, it proved to be a doubly convenient arrangement, as we kept each other out of trouble, and made sure we got to the sessions on time. Work was progressing at an impressive pace. By the end of two weeks, we had got down the backing tracks for nearly a dozen songs. Once the music was done, the long slow process of overdubbing vocals could take hours or even days per song. Recording was fun, but it was only exciting in brief bursts, separated by hours and hours of doing absolutely nothing.

Again and again, we had to sing the same song over and over, sometimes together, crowded around a single microphone, and sometimes one at a time, making faces at each other through the glass. This was the part of recording that I found utterly tedious, going back and forth over the same parts. There was no way of predicting when I would be needed, so while the rest of the band napped or watched television, awaiting their individual parts, I plugged my laptop into the nearest phone outlet and checked my e-mail between takes. Ignoring the friendly ribbing from the others, I typed endless, rambling messages to Alex. Back and forth they flew, sometimes several a day, discussing everything from our usual wackadoo theories to our studio pet peeves. Even the mundane activities of our everyday lives seemed to take on new significance when discussed with each other in type. Every time I even saw his name in my inbox, I would squeal like a teenager, drag my computer into a private corner and devour his words. 

Every now and then, he would refer to some secret surprise he had for me, but I could not worm it out of him what it was. It was almost by mistake that I found out what the secret was. Browsing around in online newsgroups, I found some mention of the US tour in the works for Slur. When I wrote back to Alex, asking if it was true, he seemed almost upset that I had found out. "I was hoping to surprise you in New York, but I suppose I have to tell you now. We're coming to the States next month. Surely you can take the time off from the studio to come our show?" Leaping to my feet, I did a little jig around the studio. 

"Kate, since you're so full of energy, it's your turn to cut vocals," announced Emma, bouncing out and tossing me the headphones. 

"Alex is coming to America!" I burbled happily, unable to think of anything else. When the engineer asked for a level, I even sang "Alex is coming to America" to the tune of the song we were working on. 

"Stop it, or we'll record that," teased Beth. "Can you imagine what the press would say?" 

Time compacted in on itself in a strange way, and I found a month had gone by before I'd even had the time to think about Alex's visit. Despite all his reminders, the exact date of the concert escaped me until it was practically upon me. It wasn't until I heard his voice on Beth's phone that I realised he was now only a few hundred miles away. 

"I'm in Boston," he announced gaily. "We'll be in New York in about four days. Are you done with the album yet?" How could I have forgotten the trippy whisper of his voice so quickly? That generic typeface I had grown used to did not even begin to do him justice. 

"No, but I'm sure they won't mind if I take the evening off." Beth glared at me, but I tried to signal to her that it was Alex on the phone. 

"I've got to run to soundcheck," he apologised. "But I'll leave your pass at the door, OK? See you in a few days..." 

"I can't wait..." I whispered. 

"You can't go anywhere tonight," protested Beth. "Come on, Kate - only a few more days until this thing is done. We'll take a few weeks off before we start mixing - you can run around all you like, then. Please, can't you just wait?" 

"Don't worry! He's not coming for another four days, yet," I assured her. "Surely we'll be done by then!" 

To be honest, I could not wait for the huge relief of finishing the album and knowing it was done, but time dragged, as if to spite me, and it seemed that the days would never end. Without the comfort of mail from Alex to look forward to, every hour stretched out to almost intolerable length. I was sick of all our songs, it seemed, sick of hearing every phrase repeated ad infinitum as we added the final touches, trying to make it just right. Just when I thought I could take no more, it was over, we called it a wrap, and put the tapes to bed. 

It was a good thing we were taking a few weeks' break to move to a different studio before we started mixing, or we were truly going to be at each others throats before long. Everyone swapped stories about bands who had taken years and years to finish albums, but quite frankly, the idea filled me with horror. I thought about the Jesus Sugarpussy and their two year odyssey through six studios on two continents, and shuddered. As much as I loved my band, I'd go mad if I had to spend two years cooped up with them in a studio listening to the same songs over and over.

The day of the Slur gig, I was a nervous wreck. I hadn't been this excited about a concert since I was a teenager. Knowing that he was only a few miles away from me in my city was torturous, but I didn't want to impose on him by calling the hotel and looking for him. No, I could wait until the evening - spend the extra time trying on and rejecting every single outfit in my wardrobe in an effort to find something just right. Nothing too sleazy - that was for sure; I definitely wanted to distance myself from the hormonal circus that seemed to swarm around the backstage area of these shows. But on the other side, Alex definitely seemed to need reminding that I was indeed female. We got so cosy, so chummy during our letter exchanges that sometimes, I swore he forgot he was writing to a woman. Finally, I settled on a short but sophisticated midnight blue velvet dress with an empire waist that seemed to give me an extra few yards of legs, and thick black tights to preserve my modesty.

Prancing out into the kitchen for about the twentieth time that afternoon, I asked the usual appraisal from Beth. "Does this make me look fat?" 

Without even looking up from her magazine, she replied "Oh, hideous, monstrous, vile, foul. Don't know how I can stand to be in the same room as you." 

"Stop it!" I squeaked, climbing onto a chair to try and get a full length view in the tiny bathroom mirror. "I'm so nervous... with my luck he'll probably bring his girlfriend..." 

"If you don't get out of here, you're going to make me nervous, and I'm not even going," teased Beth, putting down her copy of Select. "Oh wow - no, you really do look nice. Can I borrow that next time we do Top of the Pops?" 

"Don't push it," I shot back, grabbing my purse off the counter. 

"I won't wait up. Please, try not to make too much noise - these walls are paper thin. Better yet, make him take you to the hotel..." 

"If you don't stop," I warned, giggling as I brandished my handbag menacingly. 

Taking a deep breath, I skipped down the flights of stairs and out to the street to hail a cab - this dress was far too good for the subway! Crowds were already lined up outside the venue, stretched halfway around the block. Damn - I hoped I wasn't late, but then again, he hadn't told me when to get there. Soundcheck was usually around five, so they should be done by six. Gathering my courage about me, I walked straight up to the biggest and meanest looking of the bouncers prowling around the entrance to the club, eyeing the kids in line as a Doberman might eye a gang of cats. 

Before he could growl something about my going to the end of the line, I ventured. "Hi... I believe I'm on the guest list..." Rolling his eyes, he fixed me with a dubious look, but I stood firm. "The name is Kate. I'm on the band's personal list," I added with a little more conviction. 

"Yeah, you and half of New York..." But nonetheless, he pulled out a clip board and started to peruse it half heartedly. 

A couple of the kids at the front of the queue had noticed me and started to talk among themselves. Finally one of them called out "Hey, Kate..." Startled, I looked over to see if there was perhaps anyone I knew, but there was no one there but a gaggle of anonymous teenagers. I could hear them talking quite animatedly. "Hey, that's Kate from the Charms. No, it's not. Yes it is! I've seen their video... she's dating Alex Jones, you know..." 

Turning around, I smiled patiently. "I am _not_ dating Alex Jones," I replied firmly, but somewhat testily. 

"Well, you're on his guest list tonight," the bouncer informed me, pulling an access-all-areas pass out of somewhere and slapping it on my leather jacket. "Go on in." 

I could hardly believe it as I padded past the velvet ropes and into the venue. Somewhere in the depths of the hall, I heard music start up, so I headed towards it. A guitar lead, another broken bit of a melody, a strangled noise, then another guitar lead, suddenly broken by a loud metallic _sproing_ , like the popping of an elastic band. 

"Oh, crap... that's the third string this week. Roger..." As I walked into the hall, I saw a boy wrestling with a guitar that had its top string dangling uselessly from the headstock. None of his clothes fit him properly, his combat pants too big, his T-shirt too small, topped off by a wild head of short curly hair that looked as if it'd been trimmed with a hedge-clipper and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles that gave him a curious look somewhere between a naughty schoolboy and a physics professor. From Alex's descriptions of his bandmates, that could only be Graham.

From the other side of the stage, I heard a familiar voice. "Hey! Roger, I need you to adjust the action on my bass!" 

I laughed and walked up to the lip of the stage. "Alex, how long have you been playing bass, and you don't know how to change the action?" 

He grinned when he saw me, playing with his feet and making an utterly adorable mock peevish face. "That's what guitar techs are for." 

"You don't have a guitar tech," reminded Graham, looking up from his conference with the man I assumed was Roger. "Roger works for me, not you!" 

"Roger works for Slur," Alex pointed out rather annoyedly. Obviously, this went a little deeper than just some squabble over strings. 

"Alex, I can change it for you," I snorted. 

"Can you?" he pleaded in his pathetic puppy dog tone. 

"You got a Phillips head screw driver?" 

Suddenly all eyes were on me. "Here you go, love," retorted Roger, obviously amused by the idea that a girl was going to fix a guitar. Offering me his hand, he pulled me up onto the stage. Everyone crowded around as I approached Alex. With a somewhat perplexed look, he handed over his bass. 

"Up or down?" I asked, lazily thumbing out a melody. "Oooh, up - that first fret is buzzing something awful!" Roger chortled, Graham studied carefully, and Alex smoked hard and looked bored while I fiddled with bass for a bit. A few twists of the proper screws, and the problem was fixed. Turning the bass perpendicular, I gazed professionally down the fretboard. "Hmmmm... good, but it sounds a bit like your intonation is a bit off. You might want to do something about that..." 

Alex took the bass from me, slung it around his neck and thumbed a few notes. The buzzing, indeed, was gone. Roger howled with laughter, and even Graham cackled like a sick duck. Throwing them a nasty look, Alex turned back to me gratefully. "Thank you." 

"You really should know how to do that yourself," I told him with a smirk. Straightening up, I noticed that I had managed to rip a ladder in my tights. "Damn..." 

Alex suddenly looked me up and down as if noticing me for the first time, his eyes widening strangely. So he liked what he saw. Good. But before he had a chance to speak, Damon came bouncing over. "Kate, We're done with soundcheck. Are you coming to dinner with us?" he burbled happily. 

Alex threw him a strangled look and answered for me. "Well, Kate and I kind of wanted to catch up. It's been a while since we got together." 

Graham clucked his tongue like a mother hen. "You kids... you know, this is how rumours get started, Alex." Alex and I both turned around and glared at him, until he suddenly grew very awkward, intent on his shoelaces. 

I shuffled my feet nervously as he walked away. "You know, he's got a point." Alex merely laughed as he handed his bass to a roadie and lead me offstage, picking up his jacket as we headed for the door to the street. "One of the fans outside thought I was dating you." 

"Oh really?" chortled Alex, playfully throwing an arm around my shoulders as we strolled out onto the street. 

"Stop it!" I hissed, trying to shrug him off me as a buzz went down the line, resisting the urge to add _'I should be so lucky'_. Alex ignored them, making a beeline for a taxi, but Damon and Graham stopped to sign a few autographs. 

We ended up in a Japanese restaurant a few blocks away, munching beancurd and little bits of seaweed. For the first few minutes, we merely stared at each other awkwardly. How could I have forgotten those little bits of hair that continually drifted down towards his eyes, that habitual gesture of tossing his head to push it away? 

Suddenly, he broke the silence. "What?" Startled, I met his gaze. "You've been watching me like a hawk." 

"I dunno... I was just thinking how wonderful it was to see you. I got so used to typing to you I forgot what it was like to actually sit and talk to you." 

He grinned, reaching out across the table to squeeze my hand. "I know - and here we are, finally together, and we have nothing to say. How the hell are you?" 

I laughed. "Nervous, I guess. I don't know. Silly, isn't it? How the hell are you?" 

"I'm on tour. I don't think I need to say any more." He grimaced painfully. 

"OK, then. Let's see how long we can hold a conversation without talking about either of our bands." 

"Deal." He toyed playfully with his seaweed. "So what's the oddest thing you've ever eaten?" 

"Har har," I cried triumphantly. "You're talking to someone who lived in Africa, remember? Ostrich, Crocodile, Elephant - I've eaten it all. How about you?" 

He made a face. "You just have to show me up at everything, don't you?"

"I don't mean to show off, it's just my life, you know?" I frowned slightly. Maybe there was a competitive side to me that always felt like I had to prove myself to him. "OK, maybe I do. It's insecurity, I suppose. I just want you to like me. I guess I really want you to think I'm clever."

Alex's face lit up with genuine warmth and affection as he took my hand again. "You don't need to show me. I _know_ you're clever."

I blushed, looking down at supper, then squirmed and changed the subject. "Alright, you haven't told me what weird things you've eaten."

"I haven't eaten anything other than your usual eel, squid, sheep's brain type things." 

"Sheeps brain - that's pretty vile," I conceded. "So what do you think human flesh would taste like?" 

Alex chortled into his sake glass. "Pretty nasty, I would imagine. Carnivorous animals generally aren't particularly tasty." 

"Well, what about vegetarians?" I countered, poking his food with my chopsticks. 

With a roguish grin and a raised eyebrow, he leaned forward and whispered, "You know, vegetarian girls taste better during cunnilingus." 

I practically spit out a mouthful of rice across the table, then tried hard to regain my composure. Why did he have to bring up sex when it was taking every ounce of self control I possessed _not_ to think about it? Fine, if he wanted to torture me, two could play this game. "Actually, my ex boyfriend used to tell me that I ate so much Indian food that I tasted like curry." 

It was Alex's turn to squirm in his seat. Leaning back from the table, he fanned himself with his napkin. "Is it me or did it just get extremely hot in here?" 

He changed the subject awfully quickly, I noted, turning the conversation away from sex and back to cannibalism and our usual rambling theorisation. Ah, this was my Alex, my wonderful, charming, but slightly nutty Alex. For hours we sat there, just babbling at each other. No matter how strange, how off the wall my little tangents got, his eyes would spark up in understanding and he'd join in. If I brought up something that he wasn't familiar with, he'd shake his head slightly and ask about it, bending forward to listen, ever curious. Drink followed drink until my head was spinning. As I stood up, I staggered slightly, holding on to the table for support. 

"In the studio, drinks are verboten," I giggled in apology. "I haven't drunk in weeks. I've lost my head for it..." 

"Are you drunk? Lightweight!" teased Alex. "You can't seem to walk a straight line." 

"I am not drunk," I insisted. "See, the time space continuum is curved by various gravitational masses that we can't see in _this_ dimension. In the _fourth_ dimension I'm walking a perfectly straight line." 

If I hadn't reminded him of his show, I think he would have been perfectly happy to sit there all night, drinking and talking. As it was, we arrived back at the theatre with barely enough time for him to stumble onto the stage and grab his bass. 

Damon waved when he saw me, running over and engulfing me in a huge hug. "I thought you weren't coming back! You'll come out with us afterwards, won't you?" he called back as their tour manager herded them all towards the stage. 

Alex shot him a nasty look behind his back. "You can't stay back here during the show. Go upstairs in the balcony - I'll meet you up there afterwards," he whispered as he followed the others. 

As a roar went up from the crowd, I felt a slight twinge of jealousy - what the hell was I doing playing groupie at someone else's gig? That should be me, up on that stage. Bloody hell - why was I thinking this way? I was backstage at a Slur show. I should just stop worrying and enjoy it. Shuffling up the stairs, I made my way to the VIP lounge and tried to find a place to sit. The place was swarming with industry people - some MTV VJ came over and started to babble at me in the usual condescendingly unctuous way these people dealt with actual artists when they managed to corner them. But with Alex onstage 20 feet below me, I didn't even hear him. 

As the house lights dimmed and the intro music faded, I could see them getting ready, recognising that nervous energy as they checked setlists and scrambled for picks and drumsticks, a last minute tuning check, and then the count-in. The music seemed to swell and expand from the four tiny figures below, arching out over the audience, wrapping us all in its spell. They started slow and stately, then lead us through a kaleidoscope whirl, punky and frenetic one minute, nostalgically 60s tinged the next, with a slight detour through the ghost of 80s new wave disco, all squiggly keyboards and octave-hopping AbSynth basslines. They acted like stylistic magpies, jumping from one style to the next effortlessly, as if changing costumes for a play, a jaunty popsong followed by a pub-rock rave-up before sweeping into a massive, lighters-in-the-air stirring anthem, then back down for a sweetly sentimental waltz before piling on the guitars for an even more massive anthem, and yet all the time, sounding completely and distinctly like Slur and no other band.

I never normally suffered from band envy. Most of the time, I loved my own band so much that I couldn't help but compare other groups and find them wanting, but watching them, I found my heart aching, almost wishing I could be on that stage myself. The tensions among the band members seemed to work themselves out in the music, the tug of war between egos resolving itself as aggressive guitars slashed at rollicking basslines. Damon's insufferable arrogance offstage translated to an imposing stage presence that seemed to fill the auditorium.

Onstage, Alex was in his element, that affectedly bored blasé expression plastered across his face as he chain-smoked his way through the set. I couldn't take my eyes off him, mesmerised by the click and whirr of his fingers flipping up and down the strings with almost mechanical precision, totally in contrast to his studiedly detached expression. 

Occasionally, his eyes wandered up towards the balcony, seeking me out, casting a wink upwards whenever our eyes met. Whatever that magic was that endowed performers on stage with an almost super-human sensuality, it was working on me. I knew it was an illusion, a trick, and I knew how it worked because I played on it every night, but it was still effective. I watched, transfixed, for the entire show, simultaneously torn between wanting the music to go on forever and wanting it to be over, so I could have my Alex back.

After a torturously delicious eternity, and two encores, the show was finally over. Alex put down his bass, and slowly loped off the stage. I lost sight of him for a few minutes, then he emerged at the top of the stairs. For a few seconds, he just stood there, towelling off his face, then slowly he looked up at me and grinned. "Well, what did you think?" 

I smirked at him slyly. "Well, now I finally understand what all the fuss is about." 

Wrapping his arm around me familiarly, he pulled me back towards the stairs. "Come on - Let's go get pissed. My turn to discover your fourth dimensional gravitational wonderland." 

As we skylarked down the stairs, arm in arm, we practically ran into Damon coming up. "Oh, hello... I was just coming to look for you. Let's go find that fantastic dive bar we got kicked out of last time. Where was it?" 

Alex cast him a desperate look, but once Damon got his mind on something, there was no talking him out of it. "Are you sure you don't want to go back to the hotel and change first or something?" 

"I put on a clean shirt. I don't smell too bad, do I, Kate?" he teased, throwing his arm around my other side.

"Don't you have to go do the meet and greet at the after show?" whinged Alex, petulantly, almost like a little boy. 

"As should you," sniggered Damon. "We'll leave it to Graham. We know how much he likes his American fans." Alex sulked churlishly as Damon pulled us both out towards the nearest exit. "Come on - quick, before the masses disgorge into the street. We'll never get out alive, then." 

With an arm threaded though each of theirs, we made our way out to the street and dashed for a taxi through the throng gathering outside. "I feel like I'm stuck in some Beatlemania newsreel clip whenever I'm with you two," I teased as we set off down Broadway. 

"You think this is bad, you should try going out with us in England!" laughed Damon. "You still haven't been out and about with us in London." 

"I've been out with Alex and it was fine," I started to protest, but Alex muttered something unintelligible under his breath and turned to stare out the window. "What's up with you, sourpuss?" I asked, chucking him under the chin with my finger. 

He batted it away. "Nothing." 

I fixed him with a curious glance, but he avoided my eyes. Not this again, I thought to myself with a sigh, turning back to Damon. "Next time I'm in London, I'll hold you to it." 

Alex sulked the entire way down to 10th Street. Not until we were ensconced in a table and Damon was up at the bar ordering us drinks did he say more than two words to me. "What the hell did he come with us for?" he finally hissed. "Can't we ditch him?" 

"Alex..." I sighed. "That's not very nice!" 

"I see too much of him when we're on tour, as it is. Why does he have to tag along the one night I want to be alone?" 

I stared at him oddly, trying to figure out what he meant by that, but suddenly Damon was next to us, handing out our drinks. "Here you go. Kate, go do the honours with the music..." 

"No, Damon - it's your turn."

"All right... requests? What's that song you always play?" 

"Strychnine. The Sonics," I reminded him. Alex fiddled with his cigarettes as his bandmate walked away, took a long swig of his beer and moved closer on the bench. Something flickered across his face as if he were about to say something, then he changed his mind and shook his head. "So if you were stuck on a desert island with everyone in this bar, who would you kill and eat first?" I ventured, trying to recapture our previous gaiety. 

"Him!" snarled Alex with uncharacteristic spite, pointing at Damon. 

"Oh, he's too skinny, you'd have a hard time getting a decent meal out of him," I tossed back. Alex would not even play ball. "What's the matter? Come on, you can tell me..."

He shook his head and stared down into his drink. I bent my head over sideways to intersect his gaze, trying to coax a smile from him. Somewhat hesitantly, he smiled back. "Band squabbles; you know how it is." 

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ventured. For a second, he looked like he was contemplating it, then Damon slid into the booth opposite us. 

"Hey, kids! Drink up, drink up! We're all far too sober!" Knocking our glasses together, we downed what was left. "Alex's turn to go to the bar!" Slowly, reluctantly, Alex climbed to his feet and headed over. Damon turned back to me with a leer. "So what have you been doing with yourself lately?" 

"Oh, the usual. Recording an album," I shrugged, as if it were the sort of thing I did twice a week. Damon didn't even notice the sarcasm in my voice. 

Alex slammed Damon's beer down in front of him, and squeezed back into the booth next to me. "I'm knackered," he announced. "This is the last pint for me, then it's back to the hotel." 

"Aw, still suffering from jet lag, are you?" teased Damon. "Or perhaps last night catching up with you. Well, Kate'll keep me company, won't you, Kate?" 

"Why, what were you doing last night?" I asked as innocently as I could, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice. 

"Drinking," replied Alex, upending his glass. "It's the only thing to do when you're on tour. It's not as if the company is particularly stimulating," he added, with a snide jab at Damon. 

"So why don't you bring Kate along, since you clearly find _her_ company so stimulating?" Damon suggested with a wink. 

Rather than rise to the bait, Alex decided to run with the joke. "Yeah, sure, she can be my bass tech, right, Kate?" Damon exploded into laughter. 

"I don't think so," I sputtered, unsure if he was joking or serious.

"Oh, come on, Kate!" laughed Damon. Actually, he seemed rather taken with the idea. 

Finishing my second drink in record time, I stood up, feeling a bit light headed. "Naw, not today. I'm going home." 

"You don't have a home any more," observed Alex. "You should come with us as my bass tech." 

"I'm just got off tour with my own band - what makes you think I want to go anywhere with yours?" I shot back. 

"Trust me, there's a big difference between bouncing around England for two weeks in the back of a van, and a proper, full-on, major label, four star hotel American tour," Alex sniffed. Was it my imagination, or was _he_ being competitive now?

"And we pay our roadies good wages," added Damon by way of persuasion. He thought all this was hysterical, I could tell.

"A roadie?" I repeated. "You expect me to be your _roadie_?"

"Now, being a roadie is a time honoured tradition as far as day-jobs for aspiring musicians go," Alex informed me. 

"After all, Jim Gallivant was a roadie for years, wasn't he?" Damon supplied, clearly enjoying himself.

"Some might say he still is," Alex completed. Damon cackled like a duck at the slur against his arch-rival.

I stared back and forth between them. At the mention of their hated rival, I was convinced they were taking the piss out of me. "Besides, Alex, what will your girlfriend say?" I slung back clumsily, very bold from the dizzy beer drunk. The jovial mood suddenly burst like a child's balloon caught on a hot radiator. Damon shifted and looked away awkwardly. Alex refused to meet my gaze. "I'm going home. Thanks for dinner and the drinks," I announced coldly. One minute the best, the next minute the worst. Why could my friendship with Alex never just be uncomplicated?

With my head a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, I walked out onto the street. I hadn't got half a block when I heard the patter of running feet and someone calling my name. Turning around, I saw Alex striding along beside me. "Why did you leave?" 

"I didn't feel like being mocked by you two any longer," I snapped. "Besides, you were the one who wanted to go back to your hotel. You didn't think I was going with you, did you?" 

"I wasn't mocking you," he protested. "Damon might have been taking the piss, but _I_ was serious. I thought it might be fun." 

I stopped dead on the sidewalk, turning around and staring at him, searching his eyes for some motive, some hidden meaning. "Honestly, Alex. Where the hell am I going to sleep?" 

"I hadn't thought about that," he confessed, looking down at his feet. "Our rooms are usually doubles, you can sleep with me," he blurted out before stuttering, "I meant, in the other bed. Or, you can have your own room, if it'll make you more comfortable." 

"I have to think about it." Half of me wanted to desperately to throw caution to the wind, to say yes and just run off across the country with him. After all, I didn't have anywhere else to go; as he'd pointed out, I was homeless. 

"We're leaving tomorrow around noon. You can call me at the hotel if you change your mind." He paused and shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. "Come back and have another drink with us..." I threw him a nasty glance. "All right, we'll ditch Damon and go somewhere else, then." 

"I've had enough to drink," I replied testily. "I want to go home. Oh, shit, that's right. I don't have a home." I felt like sitting down on the sidewalk and starting to cry, but I refused to break down in front of Alex. I'd spent so long looking forward to his arrival, and now he was here, everything was all turning so... _weird_. "I can't even start looking for an apartment because god knows, we'll be back on tour again as soon as the album is released." 

"So you have no reason not to come with us." 

I stared at him. I'd never expected him to come sweeping into my life like a knight in shining armour and take me away from all my problems. Or had I? "I can't, Alex. It wouldn't be right." I finally asserted limply, and started to walk away. 

"Think about it?" he called after me as I headed off down the street again. Mercifully, this time he did not follow. 


	6. We Are The Road Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Kate Charms accepts a job being roadie for Slur, will those late nights sitting up all night hard drinking with Alex lead to... something more?

I lay tossing and turning for most of the night, contemplating his offer. Why was I even thinking about such an absurd thing? To be whisked off around the country like some sort of mobile concubine - was that what he had in mind? No, thank you, Mr. Jones. Then again, to go off on tour as a roadie - that might be fun. No, it was absurd. He confused me. When I wanted to be taken seriously, he dismissed me like a groupie. When I wanted him to notice me as a woman, he tried to conscript me as an employee. Back and forth, I debated it all night, but still did not have an answer when Beth switched on the kitchen light in the morning.

"Oh - you're here." She actually seemed surprised, looking around for Alex. 

"He's not," I informed her before she could even ask. 

"Why? What happened?"

"Oh god, Beth, I don't know what to do!" I blubbered. "He asked me to go on tour with him!" 

"See!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew he'd come around." 

"No - not as his girlfriend - as his 'bass tech.'" 

Beth burst out laughing. "I'm sorry to laugh. It is funny, though, Kate. Are you going?" 

"I don't know!" I wailed. "Of course I want to go, but... I don't know. It just seems wrong. It's undignified. God, what a jerk. He can't come out and ask me straight out to be with him, so he makes up this cock and bull story about a 'bass tech?' Puh-lease!"

Beth cocked a dubious expression at me as she handed me a mug of fresh coffee. "Well, if asked you to run off on tour with him as a fuck-toy, or his mistress or whatever you wanna call it - you'd laugh in his face, wouldn't you? Surely, he must know you better than that."

Staring into the depths of my coffee, I tried to piece together the roots of my discomfort. "His _mistress_ would assume he was married, which he is not. But in principle..." I couldn't believe I was even thinking this way. "No! I just don't want to be one of those camp followers who chases around after bands on tour. I don't want people to think I'm... you know... a _groupie_." There was no word that could describe the amount of loathing that escaped my lips in those two syllables.

"So what?" Beth's voice was absolutely flat as she flopped down onto my futon next to me. "Since when did you care what other people think?"

"I care what I think. I don't want to think of myself as a groupie."

"Why not? Sure... yeah, I know. Oh my god, young women that want to sleep with musicians, they are so absolutely the fucking worst thing ever. Worse than Hitler. So fucking disgusting, aren't they?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," I pondered, completely missing the sarcasm in her voice. "But you know exactly who I mean. Backstage at the Ritz on a Saturday night..."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. _Those_ girls. They want to get with a rock star, they know what they want, and they go after it. And the next night, the rock stars go on and play in Philly and get with a different girl, and those girls, they go back to the Ritz and they get with the next rock star. Seems like everyone gets what they want, but only the _girls_ get get a load of shit for it."

"Beth, just don't do it. Don't try and make out like being a groupie is some kind of feminist statement. I've read Germaine fucking Greer. It's just not what I'm about. At all."

"So why are you freaking out, and trying to talk yourself out of doing something you really desperately want to do - no, you do, shut up. I know you. I've seen you on the road. You love to tour. You are just dying of curiosity to see what it's like on a real, major label big budget tour. If you weren't in a band, you'd be working as a roadie, you love it so much."

"I suppose I do. I never really thought about it. But I do - I've always loved to travel. Nothing I like better than getting drunk in strange towns and waking up in strange hotels. That rush you get off the audience, every night, in a different place, I love it."

"And you're going to say no, to the chance to do just that, because someone might call you a _groupie_? You know, fuck this 'groupie' shit. _Groupie_ is just this word that little boys like to use, to dismiss female fans and pretend that we're not as cool as them, coz, like, we think about sex when it comes to music, and they never _ever_ do." She rolled her eyes as she said this, provoking a stream of giggles from me. "And it's bullshit. You know it is. You know, me and Emma and Maddie - we used to get this so much in the early days, when we were hanging around with the Jesus Sugarpussy and we always got to go backstage at the gigs, and ride in the van and shit. And they'd throw that word at us - because, like, Maddie was dating one of them, heck, she even married one of them. They called us groupies to shut us up and put us down, because they were fucking jealous. When Ben and Joe from the Rocket Pops were hanging around backstage, drinking their rider, smoking their drugs, trying to get support gigs, oh, they were _real fans_ , but when Maddie and Emma did it, we were _groupies_?"

"They were jealous because we were a fuck of a lot better at getting support slots than they were. I mean, fair enough."

"But we weren't getting support slots because we offered to sleep with anyone - ha! If anything, people gave us support slots because they wanted to sleep with us. And they're not groupies? Yeah, I don't think so."

"But it's complicated," I sighed. "I mean, I do want to..." I had been about to say that I did want to sleep with Alex, but not like that. I was intimidated and frankly scared of the beautiful, perfect pop star on stage. It was the silly, geeky boy with astronomical charts pinned up to the ceiling of his bedroom that I wanted.

"Then stop making excuses. Don't let anyone put you down with this groupie thing. Because, if I recall correctly, our last tour of England, you were the one beating off groupies with a stick."

"Don't remind me." I cringed at the thought of a certain blond boy, then let my mind drift on to the next afternoon, spent curled up on Alex's sofa. "Oh, what the hell - I don't know why I thinking about it so damn much. You know, the funny thing about regret is, it's better to regret something you have done, than it is to regret something you haven't done. That's always been my motto. Give me that phone."

Beth laughed approvingly as she handed it over to me. "All I can say is that if you're not back in time to mix this fucker, we'll do it without you and turn your bass into mud." 

An hour later, I had thrown a few changes of clothes into a rucksack, packed my gig bag with useful gadgets and set off on my way up to their hotel. No matter what Alex had in mind, I was taking this seriously, even dressing like a roadie in my ripped jeans and a Zildjian T-shirt stolen from Maddie. 

Alex laughed when he saw me. "Wait - you're missing something," he observed, hanging his pass around my neck. "We'll have to find you one of your own. Roger..?" 

It was indeed very different touring with a full crew, and I enjoyed the way that I was absorbed into the gang. I had been so nervous that the road crew were going to treat me with contempt and ostracise me, but they were good natured, and downright sweet, almost adopting me as a mascot. Although they insisted that I didn't really have to, I insisted on helping as much as I could. 

"My father used to be a soundman. I'm used to toting this shit around," I explained as I manhandled a case of equipment up onto the lorry. 

My incident with Roger and the bass action was now legendary among them, so gradually, they started to accept me as one of their own, until after a few hours, they barely noticed any difference between me and the rest of them. As far as I could tell, my actual duties were fairly easy - tuning Alex's bass, changing his strings and making sure the settings on his amp were the way he liked them - but I took them very seriously. 

"You know, you don't actually have to do this," Alex ventured the first night, as I scurried around, helping set up the amplifiers and the monitors. 

I shot him a nasty look. "Yes, I do. You know, your bass will sound better onstage if you cut the midrange on your amp a little bit. And that way, it'll be less work for the soundboard EQ."

"Really?" He stared at what I was doing to his amp dubiously. "Try it, just for tonight, OK?" 

"I've been telling him that for years," laughed Graham. 

"Are you coming to dinner with me?" Alex asked hopefully. 

"Just a minute - we have to get this stuff cleared away so the support band can set up their gear." I replied. 

"You're taking this very seriously," Alex noted when I finally joined him and we snuck off to dinner together. 

"Well, what did you think? You asked me to be your bass tech, I'm being a bass tech." 

A light of something approaching respect shone in his eyes as we wandered off together. It was delightful to be around him again - no matter how much time we spent together, we never seemed to run out of subjects to babble at each other about. Every new place we visited seemed to open up a whole new area of expertise in Alex's encyclopaedic brain. I could spend the rest of my life listening to this man simply make sarcastic comments about the aesthetics of a restaurant's decor. But no - I couldn't think like that. We were very good friends - that was it.

Although he was obviously intensely amused by the whole roadie thing, Alex silently watched me with that wonderful smirk as I ran around with the rest of the crew. Rather than being banished to the balcony with the press, I was free to hang around in the wings now, running for runaway mike stands and flying equipment. Although I was slightly jealous, itching to be up on the stage myself, it was actually rather enjoyable to participate in the excitement of the gig without the actual pressure of the performance. And despite my irritation at Alex's earlier competitive needling, it _was_ good experience to see how a major tour worked from the inside.

Once the band was offstage, the roadies' job began again, and we were back in the flurry of activity, packing things up back up into their cases and loading them back onto the truck. Alex hung around for a bit as I packed his bass, watching me from the wings. As I carried it towards the door, he blocked my progress. 

"Aren't you coming to the aftershow with us?" 

"I'll come as soon as we're done," I told him firmly. "I have a job to do." 

"You're doing more than you need to. I told you that you don't have to do this." 

The rest of the road crew looked at me strangely as they squeezed past us. "I have to pull my weight. I don't want to be a freeloader." 

He shifted uncomfortably, obviously annoyed. "I asked you along so you could spend time with me, not hump equipment around," he snorted. 

I turned to face him off, but someone called from the stage "Kate, can you just give us a hand for a second..." 

"Just a moment..." I called back. "I'll be back in a second." 

"Kate, you're a girl - you've got small hands - the connector cable fell down the back of the cabinet - can you fish it out?" 

"Oh, so now you're glad I'm a girl," I teased, grinning as I pulled it out for them. 

"Kate..." called Alex impatiently. 

"His master's voice..." I grumbled. 

Roger looked at me strangely. "We've got everything just about wrapped up, Kate. Go ahead, if you like." 

"No!" I hissed.

"Isn't that why he brought you?" 

"I came to look after his gear - that's it!" I snapped, picking his bass back up from where I'd left it and heading back out to the lorry, demoted from one of the boys to plaything in one sentence. 

The crew did their job like a well oiled machine, packing everything up and loading it; instead of helping, I ended up doing my best to stay out of the way, only lending a hand when I could. Alex had disappeared, leaving me to find my own way back to the hotel with the crew - damn, he had better have kept his word about the room. As I shared a cab back with the rest of the roadies, I contemplated my own stupidity in agreeing to this, being in a strange town, completely at the mercy of Alex and his whims. But luckily, the crew had taken a very protective attitude towards me already.

"Don't worry - we won't let you get lost," they assured me as we checked in. 

I shouldn't have worried - sure enough, there was a room in my name waiting for me. Declining the others' offers of joining them at a local bar, I found my way up to my room. Slamming the door and throwing my bag on the bed, I retired to the bathroom to change into my pyjamas. There was a bucket and a pair of glasses on the nightstand, but no ice. "Damn," I muttered to myself, picking it up and padding back out into the hall. I fetched my ice, and padded back to my room to see a familiar figure standing in the doorway next to mine, brushing his teeth. 

"So what happened to you? You left me at the damn theatre!" I accused. 

Alex shrugged. "You want to be a roadie, be a roadie. Ride with the crew." 

I stared at him resentfully. "Go to hell. I'm getting on the next bus back to New York tomorrow," I tossed back as I retreated to my room. Flopping myself down on the bed, I was about to pick up the phone book to look up the number for the station when the connecting door between our rooms opened. 

"I'm sorry," he ventured, sitting down on the bed next to me. 

"Leave me alone, Alex." He flopped down beside me, trying to tickle my bare feet. "Cut it out!" I snapped, yanking myself away from him. 

"What?"

"I shouldn't even be here - you should not be in my room, and you should definitely not be trying to tickle my feet." 

He hung his head like a contrite puppy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that..." 

"Why the hell did you invite me, anyway?" 

"I told you... I wanted the company," he sighed, rolling over away from me. "You see how the rest of my band treats me. It's just Alex, idiot savant - lose at snooker and miss aeroplanes. I laugh it off when they're around. Har har, Alex the unflappable fop, he doesn't mind." He paused, and looked back at me. 

"And how long have you spent building up that image?" I observed, refusing to join in his 'let's all feel sorry for Alex' game. "I think you do it on purpose. You play yourself, rather than simply be yourself. You exaggerate those aspects of your personality that people find the most irritating to keep them at a distance." 

Rather than being offended, Alex merely flopped back on the bed and started to slowly clap. "Well, congratulations, Sigmund Freud." He smiled pensively, then his face softened into something resembling affection. "I think that's what I like best about you. You take me seriously." 

I stared down at him, sprawled out on my bed next to me. "Why the hell wouldn't I?" I replied softly. "You listen to me." 

He grinned. "I like to listen to you. I've never met anyone else who thinks like I do. Who can keep up with me, no matter what sort of bizarre tangents I go off on. I just... I really enjoy talking to you. I really enjoy being with you. That's why I wanted you to come along. That's all." 

Reaching over, I boldly tousled his hair. "The feeling is mutual, Alex," I confessed. "You know, your mail really helped me get through a lot of really difficult nights in the studio." 

"Really?" He brightened. "So help me get through some really difficult nights on this tour." 

"It's not that bad," I assured him. 

"You saw how they were treating me earlier." 

"What do you mean? They didn't say a word to you." 

"Precisely my point. They treat me like I'm not even there. Just shut up and play your bass, Alex. We don't want to do your songs - why should we deign to listen to the rhythm section? Damon's the lyrical genius, Graham's the musical genius... what am I? Window dressing, as far as they're concerned. Have you seen what they say about me in interviews when I'm not there? They mock me in the press..." I had never seen Alex this upset - I had thought nothing would be able to shake his usually laid-back demeanour, but he was genuinely irritated. Reaching for his habitual pack of cigarettes and finding them missing, he looked up at me concernedly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead." He'd never asked before.

Climbing off the bed, he stalked off back to his room and returned with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a pack in his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blow up at you like that."

"Alex, if you need to talk about it, I'm here to listen." 

He lay down again, blowing smoke up into the air. "God, I'm just so sick of being taken for granted..." 

"Alex, how could anyone ever take you for granted?" I teased, prodding him gently, trying to raise a smile. "Alex, you make that band!" 

His lips twisted upwards towards that half smirk. "No, I don't. But I like to hear you say it. Say it some more." 

"Oh, so I'm not just your bass tech, but your personal ego massager, as well, huh?" He pulled a face. "Well, fine. Alex, you're marvellous. You're my second favourite bassist of all time, after Peter Hook. I wish I were half as inventive as you when it comes to writing those little counter-melodies. I get chills just watching your fingers slide up and down your neck." My tone might have been sarcastic to cover my feelings, but actually my sentiments weren't.

"Oh, cut it out."

"You know, I actually mean it," I confessed. 

We sat up most of the night, talking and giggling, lying next to each other like teenagers at a sleepover party. As it got later and later, he opened up to me more than ever before. Perhaps he just needed to vent, perhaps he just needed someone to listen to him, but I was glad I could be there for him, wishing I could burrow my way into his head, find out all his pain and just make it go away. Gratefully, I took it all, wishing I could just kiss his face, kiss away all his problems, kiss away everything but the two of us lying next to each other. 

When the sun rose over the balcony of the hotel, the two of us were still lying on my bed, our faces inches apart as we whispered. "You should really go to bed," I told him softly. "You can barely keep your eyes open, and you have to play a gig tonight - you should at least try to get a few hours of sleep." 

"I'm fine," he mumbled sleepily, his eyelashes flickering. 

"Alex..." He didn't respond. "Alex, are you asleep?" Still no response, as his breaths grew deep and even. Lying back, I stared at his prone body in disbelief. I had grown so wrapped up in our confidences that I had not even stopped to contemplate the fact that Alex Jones was lying in my bed. Tentatively, I reached out and brushed his hair out of his face, but he didn't stir. Just watching him sleep twisted all my emotions around inside until I could think of nothing else. No, I couldn't do this - the connecting door to his room was still open. I simply couldn't sleep in the same bed as him. I didn't trust myself to do it.

I rose and padded to the door, then stopped and looked back for a moment. Lying flung out on my pillow, he looked more like a young god than man, his long dark lashes brushing his cheeks. God, I could lose myself in those lashes. I wanted nothing more than to just lie down next to him and wrap my arms around him, kiss his face, kiss his forehead, kiss his lips. Shuffling back to the bed, I leaned over, and brushed my lips against his eyelids, wishing I could press myself into his dreams, then turned and fled the room before my resolve wavered. 

 

A screaming banshee awoke me the next morning, running into the room, leaping onto the bed and pounding me with a pillow. "Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!" bellowed Alex enthusiastically. 

"Aaah... cut it out! What are you doing?" I mumbled, dazed. Pulling my wits about me, I grabbed the pillow from under my head and started to pummel him back. "Hah! Take that! And that! Hah!" Pushing him off me, I relieved him of his own pillow, and started in with a double barrelled attack, giggling madly. 

"Oi, Oi, stop! Truce! I surrender!" he protested, holding his hands about his head. "You win! You win!" 

"God, what time is it?" I sighed, fluffing up my pillow and falling back down on it. 

"Past 11. And we have to check out by noon." 

By noon, we were all back on the bus, carrying bags of junk food and cups of coffee. Alex and I settled by ourselves in a corner, squabbling over who got which bits of the newspaper, finally agreeing to share the crossword puzzle. By the time we got to the next gig, we had managed to get every clue except one, working together in perfect harmony. He sketched between my words, he finished my sentences. What was it he had said last night? We thought alike. No matter how much time we spent together, I never seemed to grow tired of his company. 

We occasionally bickered, but it was more in fun than in anger, verbal jousting and teasing. By the end of a week, anyone else would have got on my nerves, but Alex had only to smile and any sort of resentment would drain out of me. It was as if the rest of the band did not exist - we stayed locked in our little world, just the two of us. Damon and Graham watched us strangely, clucking their tongues and gossiping like mother hens, but much though I wished it were true, every night, at the end of our long, drunkenly intimate tete a tetes, Alex and I withdrew to our separate rooms. 

I would lie awake for hours, thinking about him sleeping, so close, and yet so far away, torturing myself with thoughts of that glorious abandon with which he lay sleeping. The connecting door was always open; if I sat up, I could just make out the form of his sleeping body. Sometimes, if I felt especially bold, I would sneak out of bed and tiptoe over to the door, peering into the darkness to watch him while he slept. 

I fell into the routine so easily, waking bleary and hungover in some hotel room, barely aware of what city we were in. It seemed strange to me the way that bands complained about touring, because it seemed almost second nature to me. Every morning was a game to see who could surprise whom first - it was the only way we knew we'd get out of bed - fear of a pillow pummelling, or desire to pummel the other. Dragging our way to the bus, we would sulk under our sunglasses until the coffee took effect, then battle our way through whatever crossword puzzle the local papers could throw at us. 

The concerts all started to merge after a few nights... the same show from New York repeated again up and down the east coast, across the Midwest and down the west coast. Only the scenery changed, and Alex and I barely got to see it. As soon as the show ended, we would dash off, back to another Holiday Inn - "Strange, how, no matter where in the world you go, the bad art in Holiday Inns stays exactly the same," Alex pointed out, after looking at exactly the same woodland scene four nights in a row. 

"If I had the slightest bit of artistic talent, I'd paint little figures in them, doing different things, just to make some variety."

"Ha ha, we should tell Damien that, I bet he'd do it."

"Hell, my Dad's an artist. I should be good at this. Get my sharpie from the gig-bag... I'm going to draw in a little man having a dump in the back of that cottage in the clearing." As I completed my aesthetic vandalism, Alex giggled madly, but it was those little rebellions that helped to pass the time and quell the boredom.

Dinner before the show, drinks afterwards were the only moments of freedom we tasted, running off by ourselves, away from the rest of the crowd. Dodging off before the rest of the band could protest had become one of Alex's small joys. If they were going to ignore him, two could play that game. He hated the promotions anyway, he confessed to me after a few drinks. 

"Everyone goes ga ga over Damon, asks him the same questions over and over and over," he sighed. "Do you know what sort of hell it is, hearing the same rehearsed answer twenty times in a row?" 

"Believe me, I know," I laughed. "It becomes sort of surreal, in a way. We used to just make them up and give a different answer in each country." 

"I always wanted to do that, but they wouldn't let me," he confided with a smirk, then grew serious again. "It's such a strange lifestyle, but we grow so used to it, so quickly, don't we? After a while, it seems almost natural." 

I shrugged. "It's the only way to get through it, really. To treat it as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Form a little bubble of normality and don't leave it, just let it drift gently through the stream of weird shit that happens outside. And drink..." I added, raising my glass. "I mean, what do we do when it's all over, when it all stops? Not just the tour, but the whole lifestyle. The band, stardom, everything. Where do we _go_ from here?" 

Alex upended his glass and shot me a panicked look. "Good lord, we don't talk about that. I spend my whole life _avoiding_ thinking about that." 

"No, I've got it all planned out," I theorised, signalling the waitress's attention to bring more booze. "When it all gets too much, when I've had enough, I'm just going to walk out. Just disappear." 

"Like Richey Manic?" suggested Alex helpfully. 

"No, not suicide. That's the easy way out. There's this island off the coast of Scotland, called Iona. Little tiny place, 2 miles by 5 miles, one village, no cars. All the old kings of Scotland are buried there. I'll just buy one of those little stone cottages on a hillside, facing the ocean. And I'll retire there. Not tell a soul. Just walk out." 

"Mmmmm, that's a nice plan," he agreed, then sighed deeply and paused for a moment, gazing at me sadly as he took a swig of my lager. "But what are we going to do for the little end tomorrow?" 

"Why - what's tomorrow?" I asked casually, surrendering my empty beer glass to the waitress and digging in my pocket for money to buy another. 

"The LA gig. The end of the tour." 

I stared at him in disbelief. "What?" Had two weeks really flown by that quickly? The Charms tours had always seemed to go on forever, those endless hours between gigs dragging interminably. "So soon?" 

"And you didn't even want to come in the first place," he reminded me. "I told you it would be fun." 

"Well... well, when do you leave?" I stuttered. "You can't go back to England immediately..." 

"No. On to Europe. We leave on a plane the next afternoon." 

"Flying straight through? Not even a stopover in New York or anything?" I grasped for something coherent to say. 

He shook his head. "I got our tour manager to book you a plane back, but it's earlier in the day." Staring at me miserably, he seemed to have finally run out of words. "So this is our last night..." 

"We have tomorrow, don't we?" 

He shook his head. "Our American record label is throwing some big party for us, some kind of meet and greet with some wankers from the big 'alternative' radio stations. I can't get out of it. But you'll go with me, won't you?"

"I suppose so..." I sighed hesitantly. My last night with Alex, and I was going to forced to deal with more record label bullshit - and it wasn't even my label. 

"Oh, come on - it won't be that bad," he assured me. "We can get pissed on the free champagne, drink all their booze and harass their DJ to play bands on other labels. It annoys the hell out of them." 

"Oh, alright - but only if you get the next round," I finally conceded, pushing my empty glass over towards him. Patting me on the head, he grinned and ambled over to the bar. 

Damn... apart from anything else, I had nothing to wear to some over the top Industry event. Ripped jeans and a Slur T-shirt was fine for schlepping around backstage and in dive bars, but this was different. Hell, I might have to be dealing with these people professionally soon. Swallowing my dignity, the next afternoon, I found myself in a boutique on LA's trendiest boulevard, trying to squeeze myself into clothes that looked liked they'd been designed for Hollywood hookers.

"No, this is not me," I told the umpteenth salesperson who showed me some rock chick concoction. "Don't you have anything less... more..." I searched for the word, and gave up, heading instead for an inauspicious looking thrift store at the end of the block. There, among the polyester shirts and the lime green bell bottoms, was the ultimate 60's op art minidress - purple and green and barely covering my arse - and only five dollars. To hell with those snooty industry types, I was going in what made me comfortable! 

I set up the equipment as usual, waited for Alex to go on, then dashed back to the hotel to change. By the time their set was over, I had attracted an inordinate amount of attention trying to hail a taxi, but I had arrived at the venue in one piece. Padding up the stairs, I practically ran into Alex coming down. 

"Kate! I've been looking all over for you! Where have you been? I just found out where they're having our party!" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "They're taking us to the Viper Room! Have you ever been there? Oh, it's utterly amazing in its dreadfulness! You'll hate it so much you'll love it!" 

"I had to change," I explained quietly, turning around so he could admire the wonder that was the loudest dress in the world. 

For a full minute, he said nothing, as his eyebrows shot up his forehead. Whenever he forgot that I was female, I had to gently remind him with a slight display of leg. "Erm... you look very nice," he finally managed to choke out as he dragged his eyes away from my body. "Shall we, erm... get a cab?" 

I floated on air as he gently took my arm and escorted me past the velvet ropes into the darkened interior. Loud, throbbing music drowned out all conversation, so Alex leaned in close to shout in my ear; rather too close for comfort. "What do you want to drink?" He still hadn't taken his arm from around my waist. 

"You promised me champagne, of course!" I tossed back. 

"Right..." leaving me for just a minute, he worked his way over to the bar, continually glancing back at me. When he returned, we swallowed our champagne in two gulps, and demanded more from a passing waiter. 

"Je veux danser!" I giggled, after my second glass. 

"I do _not_ dance," Alex replied, relieving the waiter of the entire bottle on his next pass. "Champagne?"

Suddenly someone came up behind me and seized me around the waist. "Kate!" cried Damon, obviously already very drunk. "You're very bright, tonight!" 

"Will _you_ dance with me?" I ventured, tossing a glance back at Alex. 

"Let me guess - Alex refuses. Dancing is beneath him," teased Damon. 

"Where's Graham? Shouldn't you be babysitting him instead of us?" I snorted back, fixing him with the unamused stare that usually shut him up when he was being snide with Alex. 

"Hiding in the loo," sniggered Damon. "He's scared of the Viper Room. Always convinced someone will put something in his soda pop." 

"Ooh, I wish someone would put something in my soda pop," I laughed. "Where's that bottle, Alex?"

Damon stared disapprovingly at the champagne, completely hypocritically, given his own drunkenness. "How about you go over and at least try to be polite to the radio people from K-Rock?"

"Oh no, Damon, dear, you're the singer; it's your job as the frontman to make the verbal statement of the band. I just play bass and look pretty, remember?" sneered Alex snidely, taking me by that hand and leading me off into the club. "Hee hee hee - I've wanted to do that for years," he chortled, rapidly recovering his high spirits. "Throw his own words back at him." 

"Good for you," I laughed, shaking the empty bottle. "We appear to have a problem, though..." 

"Oh no! We must rectify this situation immediately." 

Less than an hour later, we were both well on our way to being plastered, shouting rude comments at the most annoying of the fashion victims down on the dance floor. "Come on, let's dance!" I insisted, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. 

"I can't dance to this shite they're playing," he snorted. 

"So if I get them to play something good, you'll dance?" 

"I didn't say that..." he tried to protest, but I was already on my way to the DJ booth, only to find that Damon had beat me to it. 

"Oh, here she is! What was the name of that song that you always play?" was the first thing he greeted me with. 

"Strychnine, by the Sonics," I told him for the umpteenth time. 

The DJ grinned. "I love your dress, by the way. You like 60s garage music? Oh, you don't know how long I've been waiting for someone to request something like that. Oh, this is going to be a fun break from all this commercial crap," he laughed, cracking his knuckles and digging into his bag of tricks. Grabbing his mic, he announced, "We've just had a very special request from our guests of honour tonight..." 

As the opening guitar riff rang our, Damon grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out onto the floor, nearly knocking a couple of tattooed and pierced club denizens out of the way. As I started into a lazy, drunken frug, he hopped madly about me. After a few more swigs of champagne, we were both doing the Pony, shouting out "Some folks like water, some folks like wine, but I like the taste... of straight strychnine!" 

Suddenly, there was a voice at my elbow, and I turned to find Alex next to me, grinning foolishly as he attempted something approaching a twist. "That's the spirit, Alex!" I shouted, moving closer. Putting his hands on my hips, he started to move in time with me. Too drunk to think what I was doing, but not drunk enough to lose my physical co-ordination, I started to move around him, swivelling my hips suggestively. He laughed, shaking his hair in time with the music, beginning to actually enjoy it. Strychnine ended, and the familiar opening riff to Dirty Water began. "Oh, this is just the top 40 of Garage Rock," I shouted back over the music, but Alex was entranced. 

As the music grew louder, we found ourselves drifting closer and closer together, until our hips were practically touching. His arms were around me, closing around my waist, pulling my body against his. My face was just about level with his neck, my nose full of his slightly musky scent, his hair tickling my cheek. On impulse, I brushed my lips gently against the nape of his neck. He responded with an almost inaudible moan, moving his head back so that I could kiss his throat. As the music changed, we danced slower, until we were barely moving. My mouth was on his ear now, gently licking the inner lobe, skirting my tongue along the sensitive parts.

For a moment, he pulled away, and I thought he was going to push me off him, but instead, he brought his mouth down on mine, hard, yet not forcefully, pressing my mouth open with his lips, searching yearningly with his tongue. For an endless minute, time stopped, the music stopped, I heard nothing except the pounding of my heart and the rushing of my blood in my ears as we kissed, searching out every inch of each others' mouths. 

"No!" Suddenly, I pulled away, looking at him with fear in my eyes. "No, Alex, we can't do this - this isn't right. Think of Mimi..." 

Shaking his head as if he were trying to clear the after effects, he couldn't meet my eyes. "Oh my god... she'll _kill_ me... you're right..." 

"I should go..." I stuttered, pulling away from him, backing off, then turning and fleeing. Out in the street, the cool night air somewhat cleared my head. Damn, why did I get so drunk? Where was my earring? Shit, it must have come off on Alex's jacket as I nuzzled his neck... the ever so soft and supple skin of his neck. No! Don't think like that! Ignoring the rushing noise rising in my ears, I stumbled for the relative safety of the nearest taxi before I burst into frustrated and uncontrollable laughter.


	7. Rocket Pops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With her friendship with Alex in tatters after that fateful kiss, Kate gives in to a persistent admirer, and loses herself in easy drugs and easier sex.

I woke the next morning, a fog of hangover and missed sleep, painfully aware of the bright LA sunshine streaming in between the curtains. For a moment, I couldn't remember anything except a vague feeling of disquiet, that something was horribly wrong. But as soon as I sat up, the memories came flooding back in an almost unbearably jumbled stream. The music, the lights, the smell of Alex's musky sweat, all culminating in that stupid, misguided kiss. The best stupid misguided kiss I'd ever had in my life. Groaning softly to myself, I rolled out of bed and made my bleary way towards the bathroom to quiet my lurching stomach with a glass of cold water. 

As I padded back into my room, I noticed that the connecting door between our room was closed for the first time on the entire tour. Knocking softly, I waited for a reply, then nervously opened it just a crack. "I suppose a pillow fight would be out of the question," I ventured. 

Sitting up, Alex shrugged and quickly reached for his shirt. "Probably inappropriate..." 

Looking away, I shuffled my feet and quietly coughed. "Alex, I think you have my earring." 

"I'm sorry - yeah, I found it stuck on my lapel," he stuttered, digging in his pile of cast off clothing. He climbed out of bed to hand it back to me, then looked at me dejectedly. "Look, Kate..." 

"You don't have to say anything. We're both way too drunk. It was the music... I don't know what came over us. We should just go back to our homes, and sober out... and tomorrow, it'll... it'll be like it never happened? OK?" 

"Agreed, I suppose," he sighed very softly, though whether that strange reluctance was due to relief or regret, I could not tell. "I'm, oh god, I'm so sorry. I'm such an incredible imbecile..." 

"Alex, you don't have to say anything." I cut him off before he could totally reduce my ego to tatters. 

"Yes, I do..." he continued, reaching automatically for the cigarettes. "I just feel like..." He paused to adjust the ever unruly forelock. "You're practically my best friend! Things were so... so comfortable between us, you know? So... safe. I don't want to ever ruin that feeling. I don't want you to ever feel awkward around me." 

I sighed, leaning my head against the door frame. "Nothing's changed, Alex. You don't have to worry." 

"Do we have time for breakfast before your plane, then?" 

I nodded, and returned to my room to shower and change. But if everything was alright, why did I feel so much like I was lying? Something had changed. Half of it was almost a sense of relief that all the sexual tension of the past months had not been entirely in my head, a sense of vindication - that I was neither mad nor flattering myself. Alex had kissed me. So what? Alex kissed me... I kept repeating it to myself silently. 

Climbing out of the shower, I towelled myself dry, then changed into the most shapeless and asexual baggy jeans and black v-neck sweater I could find. Knocking on the connecting door, I padded through into Alex's room to find him dressed in exactly the same clothes. "Great minds think alike," I laughed as he pulled on his shoes. 

But much though we tried to persuade each other that utterly nothing was wrong, and nothing had changed, both of us were uncharacteristically quiet during breakfast, eyes darting around nervously, alighting on everything except each other. In silence, he hugged me stiffly, then I disappeared into a taxi headed for the airport. My last sight of him, he was standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he watched the taxi pull away from the curb, staying there until the cab pulled around a corner and he drifted out of sight. 

I was an utter mess on the plane, emotionally drained, exhausted, trying my best to drink myself out of a hangover. Try as I might, the tiny aeroplane bottles of liquor did nothing to a tolerance raised to alcoholic levels by two weeks of heavy drinking with a pro. 

"Do you have any more brandy?" I asked the disapproving but friendly stewardess. 

"Sorry, that gentleman across the aisle got the last bottle." 

I turned to glower at the jet set bicoastal businessman who dared interrupt my misery, only to discover a rather fashionably dressed young alterna-dude. "Oh - it doesn't matter to me. You can have it. I'll drink whisky - it's all the same to me," he offered from across the aisle. 

"Thank you," I growled, retreating behind a newspaper. 

"Sorry if you think this is really creepy of me for asking, but are you going to the East Village by any chance?" he ventured, seizing the opportunity to start a conversation. Turning to fix him with a nasty glower, I tried my best to head off the feeble attempt at a pickup. Of course he was going to the fucking East Village - his entire demeanour screamed East Village Trendy from his candy apple red hair, cut in an asymmetrical fringe, to his fashionably striped jumper and wraparound shades "Would you mind splitting cab fare with me?" 

Resisting the urge to tell him to fuck off, I found myself agreeing to the logic of his plan. Contrary to what Damon had earlier asserted, I was coming back from the tour no more wealthy than I had left - any money I had been given had gone straight into the till of the nearest bar. "Yeah, sure. That fare from LaGuardia is a bitch..." 

Ignoring any further attempt at conversation, I tried to pretend utter absorption in the in flight movie. Even the painfully over acted weepy love story seemed to hold portentous implications for my current situation. God, was even Hollywood against me? Blotting out the rest of the world, I leaned the seat all the way back and fell into a light but welcome sleep. 

I spent the entire taxi ride giving monosyllabic answers to East Village Boy's attempts to draw me into conversation, counting down the streets down Lexington Avenue until I could be left alone with my misery again. Finally, we parted ways at Astor Place, as I climbed out with my rucksack and handed him a $20 bill. "Hey, Gordon! I live on Bleecker Street... feel free to stop by any time!" he called as the taxi headed off. 

Shit - I'd never told him my surname - so he'd known who I was all along. Just my luck - 200 people on that plane, and I'd got stuck with the groupie. Well, if he knew who I was, he should have known I was supposedly Alex's property. Shouldering my bag, I stumbled off towards Beth's apartment and put the entire incident as far out of my mind as possible. 

The five flights of stairs had never seemed quite so long as when I climbed back up to Beth's, only to find her and Emma ensconced on my futon, drinking beer and yelling obscenities at MTV. "Kate! You're back! We were beginning to get worried!" exclaimed Beth as I flopped down beside them. 

"No we weren't," contradicted Emma with a giggle. "We were going to rewrite all your songs as heavy metal power ballads with ironic guitar solos. Damn! You came home just in time." 

"So how was it? Did you..." demanded Beth suggestively. 

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Wooo-hooo! She scored!" announced Emma, opening a beer and handing it to me. "Let's celebrate! Did you know our video's a buzz clip? We're counting how many times they play it in an afternoon." 

When I didn't even comment on this, Beth turned to me concernedly. "What happened, Kate?"

"Nothing!" I snorted. "Absolutely fucking nothing!" 

Beth looked aghast. "You were with him 24-7 for two weeks straight, and nothing happened?" 

"We kissed. Once. It was all a giant mistake. I don't want to talk about it. When are we going back into the studio?" 

"Oh, she can't wait now," laughed Emma, obviously incredibly drunk. "She couldn't wait to get out of the studio a few weeks ago, when Alex was coming, but now..." 

"Emma, hush!" shushed Beth. "Kate, are you alright?" 

"For the umpteenth time, I don't want to talk about it," I snapped. Beth pulled away as if I'd slapped her. "I'm sorry," I apologised contritely. "What's this I hear about us being on MTV?" 

"Emma is exaggerating, as usual. They played the video this afternoon - we're waiting to see if they play it again. Oh, wait - commercial break over - perhaps they'll play it now..." 

The strains of a familiar melody wafted through the room, but it was only some song that had been ingrained into my head from hours spent in bars that played top-40 radio. Actually, it wasn't half bad - rather catchy, as far as sugar coated punk-pop went. Settling down, I watched the video flicker in front of our faces, until I realised why the singer looked so familiar. "Wait - who is this?" I asked, sitting up. 

"Ugh, it's the Rocket Pops again," sneered Emma. "I used to know those guys. They're such a fucking joke! They've been around the scene for ages, hanging around, trying to join bands."

"Didn't their bassist audition to be in the Jesus Sugarpussy at one point?" Beth added. "Carlos knows them."

"He was so rubbish even they wouldn't have him," Emma cackled. "One of their dads is a really wealthy old school record producer - basically bought them a record contract, is what I heard."

"Yeah, then all of a sudden they found this good looking singer, and now they're on MTV every ten minutes!" Beth sighed jealously.

"I just split cab fare from the airport with him," I laughed, pointing at their singer. 

"Who? Jeremy Kane?" asked Beth incredulously. " I hate you..." 

"You really are out of touch with American music, aren't you, Kate," laughed Emma. "There isn't a teeny bopper alternagirl in Connecticut wouldn't giver her eye teeth to split anything with that man right now. Can you say Flavour of the Week?" 

"Yeah, whatever," I sighed, flopping back onto the couch. I desperately wanted to sleep, to slip into unconsciousness and blot out all of the events of the past 24 hours, but it didn't look like I was going to get the chance. Emma and Beth were boisterously greeting every new video with a wave of sarcastic commentary, but my mind was far away, endlessly replaying that brief sensation of being pressed up against Alex's chest, our hips grinding together as our mouths merged. But every time it got to that point, the cinematic editor of my memory would intersplice the exchange of the next morning, Alex uncomfortably scrambling for his shirt. 

_'You're practically my best friend...'_ Caught forever in that weird limbo, not quite a lover, more than a friend, awkward and uncatagorisable. My bandmates insisted that I should join in their revelry, thrusting beer after beer into my hands, but in all my life, I had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned. There was nowhere I fit in - I didn't even have my own home to crawl away to and lick my wounds and sulk. 

Pushing it all out of my mind, I returned to the studio the next week determined to drown myself in my work. It had been an excellent idea to leave breathing space between recording and mixing, as when we sat down at the console, the familiar songs sounded fresh and alive again. Remembering the joyfully anticipatory mood in which these songs had been recorded, I found myself drawn back into them. Our producer was coaxing new life out them, sharpening them up and making them sparkle. 

"Put them through that machine!" instructed Beth. "You know, that magical effects box that they run all prefab pop songs through to make them sound all slick and professional." 

"An Aural Exciter," added Emma helpfully. "Make it sound like candy tastes!" 

The studio magic was doing its trick, adding a huge wall of sound dimension to our sticky little pop gems. Considering the prevailing post-Grunge Indie LoFi zeitgeist, we were spitting in the face of fashion and churning out the most polished and deliberately "commercial" and hyperreal masterpiece, 14 songs that clocked in just under 40 minutes. After two weeks of marathon 16-hour mixing sessions, it was finally finished, the finished songs packed up and sent off to England to be mastered and pressed. 

Just when we thought our work was done, the real whirlwind began - choosing cover art and writing liner notes was just the beginning of the promotional storm. Compared to this, the singles had been nothing. Our lives were no longer our own as we were shepherded from interview to photo session to video shoot. Amy had been busy; a small, exploratory American tour had been booked for the weeks following the release, followed by another tour of the UK and European summer festivals, and if things went well, a longer tour of the States in the autumn. Two separate record release parties had been scheduled, one in New York, then another, two weeks later, in London, each with their accompanying celebratory gig. 

Somewhere in the whirlwind, I found I hadn't even the time to miss Alex. True to his word, we kept contact via hastily dashed off e-mail notes, but there was some intangible chill between us. I ignored it, writing it off to my never-ending whirl of activity, but despite all our protestations, something had changed, though I could not put my finger on what. 

Our first album was released amidst a frenzy of media activity, as we had now been dubbed the new critical darlings of not just the UK music press, but the American alternative press; slick but intelligent pop music that it was OK for even the most resolutely indie snobs to like, according to Spin Magazine. An entire theatre had been rented out for our invitation only release party, and filled with everyone who was anyone from our side of the Atlantic. I had sent Alex a note inviting him, but he had declined, saying that he could not get out of his studio obligations in time, but that they would all be delighted to attend the London party. 

So there I sat at the bar, feeling uncomfortably single as I downed my fifth gin and tonic, surrounded by my famous mates and their respective dates; Maddie, as always, with her devoted husband Carlos, Emma accompanied by her Williamsburg indie cred crew, and Beth living out her teenage fantasies, turning heads everywhere by engrossing herself in a deep and intimate conversation with none other than 80s pop icon, Gary Goode of AbSynth. I posed for a few snapshots with them, then headed out into the crowd to mingle. Hell, as a pop star, I had bloody well earned the right to flirt madly with whatever lovely men wandered their way into my path. 

It wasn't long before I got my wish. Out of the crowd of blurred anonymous faces, emerged a slightly familiar one, topped with a mop of candy apple red hair. "Gordon!" 

Staring at him, it took a few moments for recognition to permeate my slightly intoxicated brain. There was only one person who had ever addressed me by my hated surname, this unbelievably pretty creature with dazzling blue eyes and cheekbones like razorblades. "I know you - you're the bloke from the plane," I finally nodded. 

"I'm Jeremy," he informed me, pumping my hand enthusiastically. "Not often I have to introduce myself any more." 

"Oh, that's right. The flavour of the week pop boy wonder," I laughed conceitedly. Damn, I could be arrogantly rude when I was drunk - wonder where I'd picked up that habit. 

The insult flew right over the top of his head. "I love every minute of it! I haven't paid for a drink in months. Can I get you one?" 

"I can't get too drunk - I still have to play tonight," I shrugged disinterestedly, motioning to my still full glass of gin. 

Sensing that I was growing bored with the conversation, he rapidly grasped for a new topic. "Uh... you wanna get high, then?" 

I fixed him with a slightly more interested look. With its flashing lights, loud music and comfortable couches, this might be a fun place to be stoned. "Why - what have you got?" 

Motioning for me to follow him, he made his way through the crowd to the bathroom. Ignoring my better instincts, I checked that the coast was clear, then followed him into the ladies room. Rather than the expected joint, he sat down on a couch and pulled out a small packet of white powder. Giggling at the cliché, I watched him remove an ornamental mirror from the wall, spread out a few lines with a credit card then roll up a twenty dollar bill. After a disappointingly brief tug of war with my conscience, I found myself emulating him. Almost immediately, I felt my head split open with that same dazzling ego brilliance I had felt months ago, tearing around London in a cab with other pop stars. This was totally normal, I assured myself, in fact, it was almost expected of me. 

"My bounden duty as a Dionysian figure, living out the illicit fantasies of the masses," I announced to nobody in particular. 

Jeremy gawked at me, totally perplexed. "What?" 

"Never mind," I sighed, turning to look at the impossibly innocent blue eyes staring back at me with open wonder. Alex would have sniggered madly at the joke and added a cutting rejoinder. Except Alex was busy, off somewhere in London with his girlfriend, no doubt, and this lovely creature next to me was attempting to flirt madly, batting his eyelashes at me with coquettish grace. 

Suddenly, the door burst open and Beth stuck her head in. "Kate... are you in here? Oh, here you are. Come on - we're almost on." 

"Just a minute," I procrastinated, bending over to take another sniff from the table. 

"Oh, lovely - give us some!" Beth interjected, closing the door carefully behind her and padding over to the couch. "Do you mind?" 

"Not at all - help yourself," shrugged Jeremy. 

Beth's eyes lit up like a fiendish demon as we made our way towards the backstage area, both of us jiggling nervously and babbling at each other. This was going to be an animated performance, to say the least. By the time we hit the stage, we were bouncing off the walls, jumping up and down in time with the music. Beth was a born performer naturally, but in this state, she was electrifying, exuding a magnetic influence over the front rows. My head was spinning, bursting with a pure and perfect exhilaration as I ventured up right to the front of the stage, balancing on top of the monitors, like a queen surveying her kingdom. I never wanted it to end, running through our set in a transcendent rush - but it was all over too soon. Rather than let the mood go, I found myself seeking out Jeremy and demanding more. 

"Sorry, that's the end of what I brought," he apologised contritely. 

"Oh." With a disappointed sigh, I started to move away, but he followed me like a devoted puppy. 

"I can get more, though. Want to come back to my place?" he offered hopefully. 

Glancing around, I looked for my bandmates, to see if I was needed further. Maddie had already disappeared, always the first to leave after a gig, but Beth and Emma had been cornered by the assembled members of the press. Babbling animatedly, Beth seemed to be utterly in her element, dealing with them, while Emma drank steadily and looked bored, occasionally throwing in a sarcastically deflating comment. Turning back to Jeremy, I shrugged. "Why not? Looks like they've got everything under control here." 

His face lit up like a Christmas tree as he guided me out to the street to find a taxi, grinning with a delighted expression of pure blissful possession. But rather than the arrogant, spoiled pop star I had expected, he held the door open respectfully as I climbed in, nervously reaching to hold my hand as we slid off up the avenue. 

"You're not from around here, are you?" I ventured as he played distractedly with my fingers. 

"Does it show?" he laughed, with a faint squeak of a giggle. "No, I'm from Minnesota. I just moved here to join a band last year. I wanted to be famous, like every other kid that moves here, but boy, I was not expecting it to happen this fast. It's like a dream come true." 

No wonder he was still so innocent, so full of wonder, gawking at me uncannily like a tourist. As the cab pulled up outside his building, I stared in dismay at the street. "You really live _here_?" I sighed, watching crowds of Jersey yobs streaming by in drunk packs. "The bad, scary block of Bleecker with all the loud bars with the abominable cover bands? You know what natives call this place - the Walk Of Shame!" 

"I don't know - I kind of like it. If you'd ever seen St.Cloud, Minnesota, you'd understand. It's 2am, and there are still crowds of people out! Look at this!" he giggled, gesturing around as he helped me to climb out of the cab. Hand in hand, we climbed the stairs to his apartment. "Isn't this fantastic?" he announced proudly as he turned on the lights to reveal an apartment that was decorated as if someone had just recently gone down to SoHo, walked into a trendy design boutique and ordered 5 of everything. Fur covered lamps sat on top of Caligari-esque tables, next to shiny vinyl bean bag chairs in odd shapes and colours. 

"Fur-covered lamps," I giggled. "How dada of you." 

"What's dada?" he shrugged. "Have a seat - do you want a drink?" 

"Yes, please," I replied, sitting down cautiously on the very edge of a precariously balanced clear plastic blow-up chair. 

"Put some music on, if you like," he instructed from the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable." 

Glancing around, I saw stacks and stacks of CD's lying around on the floor, many still in their shrink-wrapped covers, as if bought en masse on a shopping spree and abandoned. I found something listenable and popped it on the stereo, then set about digging through the rest of them. Lying on top of the pile was the new Slur album, so I gingerly picked it up and opened it, staring uncomfortably at the photo of Alex that adorned the inner sleeve. Damn, why did he have to pop up and reassert his grip on my mind when I was doing my very best to drown him out in a sea of readily available drugs and even more readily available sex?

When Jeremy returned from the kitchen with two strangely twisted cobalt blue glasses, I was still holding it. "Oh." He appeared visibly crestfallen, not even bothering to hand me my drink as he settled down on the latex couch. For a long minute, he said nothing, then suddenly blurted out, "So, are you really going out with Alex Jones?" 

"No, of course I'm not. We're just good friends, that's it," I asserted. For a moment, the sensation of Alex's lips against mine erupted into my memory, but I forced it back down through sheer force of will, dropping down onto the couch next to him. 

"So, would you, um, like to, uh, would you... uuuhhh... do you wanna go out with me?" he finally managed to spit out with great tongue-tied effort. 

I think I actually laughed out loud. "Jeremy, I'm sitting on your couch, sipping cocktails at two in the morning. I don't think it's a question of 'If' anymore, but simply a question of 'When?'"

Nervously putting down his drink, he took my hand and looked into my eyes. For a second, I saw nothing there but sheer terror, then utter infatuation, then finally a burst of courage, and he leaned forward, his eyes half closing. Was this the way I had looked at Alex, that fateful night in the Viper Room, I wondered for a moment, then Jeremy's lips touched mine, and all thoughts vanished except for the pressure of his mouth against mine. For a long time, we sat on the couch, just kissing, exploring each others mouths hungrily, but strangely, he showed no inclination to go any further. Taking matters into my own hands, I climbed on top of his lap, straddling him as I pulled the striped jumper over his head. He did not protest, looking up at me from under his candy-coloured hair, his impossibly blue eyes filling with wonder. Gently, I nipped at his neck, moving my mouth lower, over his chest, tweaking his nipples with my teeth until he moaned softly, his head lolling back against the back of the couch. 

"Jeremy, have you got any more coke?" I suggested, pushing my fingers down inside the waistband of his leather jeans.

"Uh, yeah. Of course. In my bedroom," he stuttered as I climbed off him, took him by the hand, and pulled him to his feet. Pointing to another door, he allowed me to lead him, strangely reluctant, but not protesting. On the dressing table, I found another envelope, and chopped out two lines, inhaling one, then staring at myself in the mirror as he took the other from me. I felt sexy, powerful and in control in a way I hadn't felt in months. Forget Alex and his confusing, double-edged friendship, this boy was beautiful, and compliant, and he was looking back at me as if he thought I was a goddess.

He watched me strangely, half nervously, half excitedly as I kicked off my boots then pulled my dress over my head. Moving over to him, I kissed him roughly, then pulled away, leaving him hungrily leaning forward to try to kiss me again. Searching across his skinny ribs with my tongue, I nipped playfully as I descended lower, towards his trousers. Taking the zipper between my teeth, I pulled it down, eliciting a tiny shower of giggles. "Oh, wow... are you really going to... nnngggggg..." His breath escaped in a tiny hiss as my mouth found his penis, gently running my tongue around the sensitive ridge of his head. Entangling his hands in my hair, he pulled me against him as I sank to my knees. Teasing gently, I took more and more of him into my mouth with each circuit until he was filling my throat. "Oh god, stop, stop," he panted, pulling my head away from his crotch by the hair. 

"Why?" I flipped back with my most wicked harlot expression. 

"I'm about to come - I don't want to, you know... in your mouth..." he stuttered. 

"Oh, you want to save it for later," I teased, pushing him back onto his bed and pulling his trousers off him. Lying down beside him, I started to work tiny circles in the skin of his arm with my tongue. 

"What are you doing?" he gasped as my mouth moved up to the inside of his elbow, sucking gently at the sensitive, exposed skin, then continuing towards his armpit, licking the slightly salty sweat away. 

"What's the matter, ticklish?" I teased. 

"Yes... no... aaaaaahhhh, what are you doing? That feels so good..." As I pushed my fingers gently down the crack of his buttocks, he gazed at me with the wondering amazed expression of a boy seeing a woman naked for the first time, not knowing what he was looking at, but knowing that he wanted it. How could he be so beautiful, and yet so naive? 

"What, haven't you had sex before?" 

"Of course, I've had sex before," he snorted, as if almost offended by the question. "Just not... well, not like this... wow... I didn't think girls actually, you know - liked it. It was always such an effort to get any, and then all it turned out to be was five minutes of sweating in the back of a car." 

The flattery was going to my head, mixed with the arrogance of the cocaine rushing through my bloodstream. "So you've fucked before, but you've never 'made love' before," I laughed, moving my hand lower still, massaging gently the loose skin where his scrotum was attached to his body. 

"Something like that," Jeremy responded breathily, his eyes practically rolling back in his head with pleasure. 

"Sex is so much more than five minutes of penis in the vagina," I told him condescendingly. "I bet I could make you come without even touching your genitals," I boasted. 

His eyes lit up as if he was about to have the mysteries of the universe revealed to him. "Somehow, I bet you could..." 

"Close your eyes, lie back," I instructed. 

"Do I have to close my eyes - can't I watch?" he complained flirtatiously. So he wanted The Whore? Dammit, he was going to get the best damn whore in the world, in that case. Men, they were so easy to manipulate with the idea of sex. Pulling every trick I could remember from my misspent teenage years of absorbing men's magazines purloined from my over-sexed next door neighbour, I pushed his hands up above his head, holding him captive there while I slapped his face with my breasts. Moaning slightly, his eyes were huge with open adoration as I raised my body high over his, then slowly, torturously, moved downwards towards the shaft of his penis, teasing him with my outer lips, letting him penetrate far enough to feel how wet I was, then pulling away sharply. "Oh, god... please..." he whimpered, bucking with his hips, trying to get inside me. After a torturous eternity, I finally allowed him inside, seizing him with my internal muscles. Using him simply as a toy, I started to move, up and down, side to side, delighting in the feel of him thrashing about helplessly beneath me. After a few minutes, his breaths grew shorter and shallower, and he started to pant. "Oh my god, I'm going to come..." 

"Stop! Wait!" I snapped sharply, ceasing my movement and staring into his eyes. "I didn't say you could. I'm not through with you yet!" Damn, the words didn't even sound like my own, but those of some coked-up dominatrix that had taken over my body. 

"Yes, ma'am," Jeremy panted, his head lolling about in ecstasy as he tried to control himself. Slowly, I started to move again, delighting in the power I had over him. It wasn't even about sex, it was about control, about sheer physical release from tension. To hell with Alex; to hell with frustrating, uncontrollable, indecipherable Alex; Jeremy stared up at me as if I was a queen, and he was totally subject to my will. It was his total acquiescence that excited me. At that moment, as I held him between my thighs, he would live or die simply for another movement of my hips. Stroking faster, I leaned backwards, delighting in the almost uncomfortable pressure of the angle of his penis. Drunk on power, still high on the drug, I thrashed onwards, oblivious to anything except the pursuit of that perfect sensation growing at the base of my spine. I was losing control, my body was throbbing, waves of pleasure rushing over me as orgasm broke in a spasm of total and complete physical bliss. Exhausted, spent, I let Jeremy place his hands on my hips, guiding me up and down, shivering at the occasional aftershock as he thrust blindly, building towards his own climax. He was calling out, moaning out loud, his hands reaching for my breasts. For a second, his face twisted in an expression almost reminiscent of utter agony, then a look of contented bliss settled over his features.

Climbing off him, I wanted nothing except to simply slump back against the bed and fall asleep, but Jeremy clung to me like a drowning man. "Oh, god, Kate, oh god..." he kept repeating, kissing my face, my mouth, my nose, showering my eyelids with a hundred tiny butterfly pecks.

Oh how typical, I thought to myself as I drifted off into the welcome oblivion of sleep. You give a man the fuck of his life, simply to relieve your own tension, and he ends up as enamoured as a teenager. Well, let him have his fantasy for a few more hours as I rested. In the morning, I would simply walk out of his life without even looking back.


	8. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it harder work, being a Pop Star, or being a Pop Star's Girlfriend? We find out the story of how The Charms became the former, as Kate becomes the latter almost entirely by accident.

A splitting headache dragged me back to consciousness. Even without opening my eyes, I could feel the sun hot on my face, turning my vision into a field of burning red. Someone's arm was wrapped tightly around my waist, their face buried between my shoulder blades. Groggily fumbling through the hazy shards of the previous evening's memories, I tried to figure out where the hell I was, then gave up and opened my eyes, blinking against that blinding terrifying sun. A burst of coloured light assaulted me, and it took me several moments to realise that someone had hung a huge poster across the window, and it was the bright red and blue of the promotional type declaring "The Rocket Pops" that was exploding into my brain. Larger than life, a huge photo of four lovely men in leather jackets beamed down at me, their impossibly thin legs spread out at wide angles as they leaned on each other, young lions challenging the world not to fall at their feet. The one in the centre, with the candy apple red hair falling over razor sharp cheekbones, looked achingly familiar... and suddenly the memory of where I was came flooding back. That young pop god was lying next to me, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist in proud possession. 

"Oh, god, what have I done..." I moaned softly, reaching up to push my tangled hair out off my eyes. 

The man at my side stirred slightly, woken by the sound. His angelic features burst into a radiant smile as he nuzzled my face gently. His mouth had found mine, nibbling at my lips. My brain was unwilling, but my body had already made the decision for me, wrapping my legs around him. Before I could think, he was inside me, climbing on top of me, moving almost imperceptibly at first, then insistently. My nerve endings were on fire as my mind tried to shuffle to alertness, both of us rapidly waking up as the sensation grew more and more intense. I gasped as he bit at my neck, pushing into me again and again until I had no choice but to relax and just let orgasm wash over me. 

"Good morning, Gordon," he giggled as I exhaled sharply in a tell tale moan. 

"Don't call me that," I retorted, kissing his eyelids, suddenly feeling an overwhelming tenderness towards him. Naive, impressionable and slightly stupid he might be, but I had to admit he was sweet, not to mention incredibly pretty. Like, the kind of boy who could fall asleep in smudged eyeliner and on waking, shagged out and unshaved, still look like a Caravaggio painting pretty.

"Why not?" Kissing my nose in response, he tucked a strand of flaming red behind one ear. 

I shook my head slowly. In the afterglow of orgasm, I could almost forget the pounding of my hangover. "Oooh, I feel like I've been run over by several thousand aged French grapes..." 

"Can I get you a glass of water?" he offered, leaping out of bed and pulling on his trousers. In the few moments he was gone, I searched for my clothes amidst the wreckage of his room. Despite the trappings of his recent fame, he was still such a boy - several hundred dollars worth of designer clothes were bundled up in a ball on the floor. Gathering my clothes, I dressed quickly. "Wait - where are you going?" protested Jeremy as he returned, bearing a glass of water. 

"Erm, I have to... erm..." I stuttered cautiously. Damn, getting out of this was not going to be as easy as I thought. 

"Can I take you to breakfast?" he interrupted, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around me, resting his sharply pointed chin on my shoulder, staring at our reflection in his dresser mirror. Even hung over, shagged out and slightly shabby, I had to admit we made a striking couple. Against my better judgement, I found myself agreeing. 

He bounced around like a child showing off all his toys as we wandered through our bleary morning. Babbling excitedly, he would trot up ahead of me, then run back, circling around behind me to throw his arms around me in an enthusiastic hug. Despite my hangover, his energy was so infectious, I soon found myself buoyed up in his good mood. He was so curious about everything, completely honest and open and innocent, a wide-eyed Alice, full of wonder. It amazed me the little things he didn't know - he seemed completely in awe of the most trivial facts that I dropped in passing. 

Breakfast turned into an extended meal, complete with Bloody Marys, that lasted until mid afternoon, then Jeremy dragged me out on a shopping expedition to every record store along St. Mark's Place. All I had to do was hold up a CD, often bands he'd never even heard before, and next thing I knew, he was buying it. He dropped money without even thinking about it, like a kid in a candy store, trying to ply me with presents, often buying three or four of the same thing, for his friends, he explained. Over the course of one afternoon, I watched him put nearly a thousand dollars on one credit card. 

"I'm rich now," he shrugged as I cocked an eyebrow at a particularly elaborate purchase. "My entire life, I've been dirt poor - we lived in a trailer park when I was young, you know. Every store I went into, they'd look at me funny, knowing I couldn't afford anything, eyeing me like they thought I was going to steal something. Well, fuck them now! They'll never look at me that way again." Pointing up at a wall covered with Rocket Pops posters, he burst out laughing. "I'll never get used to this. Never." Suddenly, on an impulse, he moved over to another rack of CD's. "Hey - look at this," he announced, holding up the newly released Charms album. Placing it down next to one of his band's CDs, he smiled proudly at his handiwork, then grinned at me expectantly. 

In that instant, I saw how he had it all planned out, and turned away awkwardly. "Jeremy, I should really be going..." 

His face fell as he grabbed for words to make me stay. "Don't you want to go to dinner or something?" 

I sighed, about to protest, but his earnest expression pulled me back. "All right... let's walk over to Sixth Street and get some Indian food," I suggested. 

Jeremy shifted awkwardly. "You know, I've got a confession to make... I've never eaten Indian food." 

"What? really?"

"I don't think they don't have Indian people in St.Cloud, Minnesota," he explained. 

"Damn, I was practically raised on it. I make a mean curry myself." 

"You do? Where did you learn to make curry?" he asked, obviously impressed. 

"We lived in an Asian neighbourhood in London when I was a kid," I shrugged.

Jeremy looked at me with even more outright admiration than before. "Well, then you'll just have to guide me through the menu." 

I found myself following him back to Bleecker Street after dinner. Every excuse I made to leave, he countered with another reason that I should stay. He looked so damn adorable, that against my better judgement I found myself leading him back into his bedroom, kissing him roughly, tangling my fingers in his cherry red fringe as I pulled him down on top of me. He made me feel so incredible, so powerful, so sexy, the way he watched me, worshipped me, told me I was an utter goddess. And so, for the second night in a row, I found myself falling asleep, wrapped in his arms. 

Three days later, I found myself still there. I had protested that I needed to go back to Beth's to pick up a change of clothes, but he had insisted that I wear his rather than leave. For a second, I thought about it, and had it been my home, I might have had the impetus to go back - but when it came down to it, I didn't really have anywhere else of my own to go. Every time I tried to leave, Jeremy would come up with something else, we simply _had_ to do, and I would end up staying another night. Everything was like a new toy to him, every new thing another thrill that had to be tried. 

For days, we had barely left his apartment, alternately fucking like beasts and indulging in massive quantities of drugs, each indulgence fuelling the other, it seemed. Someone had once warned me that cocaine killed your sex drive, but it seemed to have quite the opposite effect on us. All Jeremy had to do was bat his eyelashes and smile that utterly irresistible little boy smile, and I would melt, throwing my arms around his neck and showering his face with kisses. However limited his experience had been before he met me, he learnt fast, incredibly adventurous, wanting to try everything, making up in enthusiasm for what he lacked in skill. 

He wanted me to go everywhere with him, do everything with him. We wore each others clothes, we painted each others fingernails, he wanted to bleach his hair blond to match mine, but I was too fond of the red to let him. When I finally told him that I had to leave to go to rehearsal, he found it absolutely devastating. "Can't I go with you, Gordon?" he begged. 

"No, Jeremy," I told him gently but firmly. "No men at rehearsal, that's the rules." 

"But you'll come with me to my rehearsal, won't you? We're practising this weekend..." As if to prove his point, he picked up the acoustic guitar lying against the coffee table.

"I can't. I have to play in London, this weekend," I sighed, attempting to brush my hair, then giving up and pulling his jeans on. 

Jeremy looked utterly aghast. "You're leaving so soon?" 

I nodded. "UK album release."

"Can I go with you, then?" His wide blue eyes were pleading. "Come on - we don't have that long together before both of us have to go back out on tour... I want to spend every moment I can with you, until then." Lazily fingering a few chords on the guitar, he gazed back up at me.

For a moment, I just stared at him, about to dismiss the idea out of hand. Then that reckless impetuousness took over. Why the hell should I not take Jeremy with me? Who was going to protest? Alex? For three days, I hadn't even given him a thought; why bother about him now? There, it would show him that I wasn't the slightest bit bothered about him if I showed up with my lovely new toy. "Yes, of course you have to come with me, Jeremy!" I insisted, padding back over to him and showering his face with kisses. "I'll be back in a few hours, I promise you! Wait for me?" 

"I'd wait my entire life for you," he assured me, singing along with the chords he had been stringing together. "I've been waiting my whole life for just one kiss. I knew that when you held me, it would feel just like this."

I was still singing his song as I skipped my way into our rehearsal, albeit twenty minutes late. "Hello, everybody!" I announced, retrieving my bass from the equipment closet. 

Beth glared at me. "Where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick about you!" 

"I wouldn't miss rehearsal," I offered contritely. 

"You didn't answer the question," pointed out Emma facetiously. "Is that a Rocket Pops T-shirt you're wearing?" 

"Yes, it does appear to be," I shot back flippantly. 

Emma pulled a disgusted face, but Beth's eyes practically popped out of her head. "Then that was Jeremy Kane at our gig?" 

"I'm surprised you remember," I teased. 

"I don't want to know, I don't want to hear any of this!" insisted Emma, putting her hands over her ears. "Kate, how could you?" 

I merely smiled mysteriously and refused to comment on it any further, borne up in a fantastically elated mood. The band had never sounded better, in peak musical form, bristling with anticipation of our upcoming releases and tours. In the UK, the album was the subject of intense expectation and hot debate. Advance copies had inspired superlative praise in the press - to beat its competitors to a cover story, Melody Maker was actually sending their editor to New York to interview us. 

"We're meeting him tomorrow, Kate, so don't even think of being late," Beth warned me. 

Proudly, I waltzed through the door of our record label's office ten minutes early, only to find that our special guest had not arrived. "Damn, and I missed out on another twenty minutes of the best sex I've ever had in my life," I teased, flopping down on the couch next to Beth. 

"I can't hear you," she sang back, sticking her fingers in her ears and rolling her eyes. "So, now you're all happy and in love, when the hell are you going to come over and pick up the rest of your crap, then? Or should I not hold my breath for the wedding?" 

"Who said anything about love," I sniggered. "Ow, it hurts to sit down..." 

"Oh, shut up! I hate you!" protested Beth, picking up a pillow and pounding me with it just as the door opened and a harried looking man bearing a tape recorder and accompanied by a photographer shuffled through the door. 

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" he stuttered as Beth and I collapsed in a heap of giggles.

"Oh, just Kate boasting outrageously about her sex life," retorted Beth with a wink. 

At that moment, Emma came bursting through the door. "Oh my god, you guys, am I late? I'm so sorry... oh shit, I am late - Kate's here already." 

Ignoring the friendly ribbing from both sides, I turned back to the journalist. "Do you see what I have to put up with? Can we start the interview now?" Turning around, I caught Emma making a face at Beth. "They love me, really they do..." 

The door burst open again, and Maddie stuck her head in. "Oh shit, you've started without me, haven't you? Hi, I'm Madeleine Cerbone, by the way. What's your name?" she directed in a friendly chirp towards our poor man, shaking his hand. 

"Erm, Larry. Larry Liar," he stuttered, obviously completely intimidated by us. Now that had to be an accomplishment - this man was legendary for raking the most self confident of pop stars over the coals, yet two minutes in a room with four energetic American girls, and he was speechless.

"So, fire away," directed Beth. "What do you want to ask us?" She grinned triumphantly as he squirmed, trying to recover some shred of his dignity. 

"What are the usual opening questions? So when did you girls decide you wanted to be musicians? Shouldn't you be trying to sleep with the band, not be in the band?" Emma suggested helpfully.

"No, that's Kate's job," sniggered Beth. I punched her playfully. 

"Actually, that's a very good question. How did you start the band?" he ventured, trying to regain control of the situation. 

Emma and Beth exchanged glances, rolling their eyes and kissing their teeth at one another. One cocked eyebrow said it all - so which line are we going to pull on him? "Which story do you want?" Beth giggled.

"We've got about half a dozen of them," Emma added.

"Whichever one is juiciest, of course," Larry shrugged.

But in a flash, something changed. Perhaps Beth actually felt sorry for him, perhaps Emma was too hungover to come up with another outrageous story, but somehow the truth came slowly to the surface. 

"It started in high school, actually," started Beth with a grin. "Everyone else I knew wanted to date AbSynth, I wanted to _be_ them. I used to practice in front of my mirror with a hairbrush, wearing my white trousers." Emma made a pained face, lighting another cigarette. "Then, one day, while I was in glee club, trying to get my vocal chords around, what was it, Emma?" 

"My Way," supplied Emma. 

"This transfer student, from like, Mars..." 

"Flushing," contradicted Emma. 

"Well, she walks in, she's got this green mohawk..."

"It was blue!" 

"And she plonks herself down next to me, stares at me, and tells me to move over, cause her imaginary friend 'Sid' wants to sit next to her!" 

"I taught her how to sing it like the Sid Vicious version!" Emma burst out laughing. "The nuns threw a fit, kicked us both out of glee club. You've got to understand... I got expelled from my local high school, so my mom packed me off to this private convent school until I turned 18. Everyone in there had this permed poofy feathered poodle hair except for Beth, who was just new wave incarnate..." 

"I frosted my bangs to look like Gary Goode - my hair turned bright orange," she confessed.

"We couldn't stand each other's taste in music, but she was the only other musician I knew! That's the great thing about being in an all girl band, is you get this weird mix of musical styles, cause the guy musicians don't want anything to do with you, so you end up with other women, just cause they at least understand," Emma explained. 

"So we needed a drummer, and the little sister of one of this band we used to pal around with, she played drums..." continued Beth. 

"That would be me," ventured Maddie, raising her hand. "I couldn't keep time to save my life, I just liked to make a lot of noise. I started playing drums to impress this guy my brother was in a band with."

"Did it work?" wondered Larry.

"I ended up marrying him!" she exclaimed. "The funny thing is, I still play drums, he doesn't. Though he must have really loved me, cause we were awful."

"We weren't awful, we were punk!" asserted Emma. 

"Oh, come on, we were awful," protested Beth. "We called ourselves the Charm School Dropouts, we were so bad." 

"We got better," Maddie insisted. "Well, once my brother gave me this drum machine to try and play along with, to keep to one beat at a time. So I got obsessed with loading funny samples into it to play along with."

"So what about Kate? When did she come in?" Larry had been so quiet, we had practically forgotten he was there. 

"Oh, not for years," I dismissed. "Wait, there's more." 

"We had this terrible, terrible bassist. What was his name? Matt?" reminisced Beth. 

"No, it was Mark," contradicted Emma. 

"Mack, perhaps?" suggested Maddie. 

"It was Mark, because we called him No-Mark, remember? But whatever his name was, he was awful. We just had to have a male bassist for every garage band in the world that had a chick bassist," laughed Emma.

"And of all the nerve, our big gig, biggest break of our life and he bails on us!" gasped Beth, with her usual theatrical effect. "We finally get a friend of a friend to talk this big scenester band into letting us support them, and our bassist refuses to get the time off his day-job? But luckily, we met Kate at... where was it we met you?"

"It was Under Acme," answered Emma. "And I would know, because I was working as a waitress there at the time." 

"That was after you got fired from Under Acme for spitting in the food," Beth reminded her. "It was when you were tending bar at Nightingales..."

"I never worked in Nightingales! That shithole! It must have been the Luna Lounge."

"It was before Luna Lounge opened. I think it might have been Max Fish? Or next door at the Pink Pony? I don't remember."

"I have trouble enough remembering last week, let alone 1994."

"It was Under Acme," I finally pointed out. "Because you were still working there when I walked in." Turning to Larry, I tried to elucidate. "I was still at architectural school, trying to pick up a bit of cash as a session player, filling in gigs with other bands. So I arrived for this gig, half an hour early, I'll have you know," I shot with an aside to Emma. "And this tiny ball of energy bounces over to me and demands 'please, tell me that's a bass in that gig bag.'" 

"Lucky for us, it was," giggled Emma, lighting another cigarette and pulling a beer out of some pocket deep in her leather jacket. "I talked to her for five minutes, and knew she was perfect for the band. As soon as I saw her bass, with all the glitter painted all over it." 

"You forgot the Kinks story!" interrupted Beth. 

"Oh god, no..." I groaned. 

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Emma with a giggle. "She told us that when her family was in London, her parents had let the Kinks keep their stuff in their garage. I said, even if she doesn't join the band, can we still say that she did so we can use the story?" 

"Is that story true?" asked Larry incredulously.

"As far as I know. My dad was a bit of an experimental artist, so my parents had some pretty far-out friends back in the 60's..." I stuttered, not really wishing to get onto the subject. "They were mods and then flower children and all that..."

"She had the job on the spot, but she insisted on going through an audition and everything," laughed Beth. "We changed our name just after she joined - we played at Brownies, and our name didn't fit in the ad, so they abbreviated it from the Charm School Dropouts to the Charms. We thought it was so hilarious, we kept it!"

"And the rest is history," finished Emma with a melodramatic giggle.

"You make it all sound so haphazard..." Larry finally got a word in edgewise.

"It _was_ all that haphazard!" I shrugged. "That's what's so weird about us. I sometimes really do think we _are_ charmed. We'll work and work and work really hard, for ages, and nothing happens. And then the moment we're about to give up, the most amazing thing invariably happens, completely by accident!" 

"And what about the supposed extra curricular activities of the band members during the recording?" continued Larry, oblivious to my squirming.

"Do you mean Kate's little day job?" teased Beth. "Tell them about it." 

"I was a roadie," I admitted hesitantly. 

"For Slur..?" probed Larry. "Is it true that..." 

"If this question is going where I think it is, I warn you, I'm going to get up and walk out," I snorted contemptuously. 

"We're all a bit sick of the subject," Beth offered diplomatically. "We're just tired of people who refuse to consider us except in relation to some guy. For years, we used to have to convince people around the New York scene to take us seriously because they thought we only got gigs cause Maddie was dating Carlos from the Jesus Sugarpussy. We don't want to have to go through that all over again with Slur or... anyone else!"

She'd been about to say the Rocket Pops, but my sharp look cut her off.

"OK, fair enough - moving on," suggested Larry, clearing his throat a bit nervously. "So how would describe the album?" 

"Oh, it's a bit of Kraut Hop Mod-abilly Garage Lounge Lo-Techno Drum'n'Jungle Post Modern Pop Art-House Film Soundtrack Music," I replied facetiously. 

"Come again?" 

"How the hell are you supposed to describe your own music?" added Emma. "I always hate those sort of questions. I mean, isn't that what critics are for? To tell you what you mean. To me, it sounds like, well, it sort of sounds like fudge tastes. Kate, what the hell are you doing?" 

Standing up, I had started to waltz around the room. "The Quadrille of the Piazza," I replied dreamily. "The Minuet of the Veranda..." 

"Stop that!" snapped Larry, beginning to get more than a little frustrated by us. 

As she glanced at her watch, Emma yawned loudly. "I'm bored. I need another drink. Can we go to the Lakeside Lounge?" 

"Wait, but we've got an interview to finish," protested Larry. 

"So we'll finish it over drinks," pronounced Emma. "Come on - you're buying, Larry."

Clearly, Larry was intimidated by our little spitfire, but it didn't stop him from making an arse of himself at the bar. "So where are you from?" he asked Emma, little realising what he was letting himself in for.

"Queens," Emma burped.

"No, really, where are you from? More precisely, where were you born?"

"No, really. Queens," Emma repeated.

"No, what I mean is, what are you?"

"Human?" If looks could kill, that would be one dead journalist.

"Are you Asian, are you Black, are you mixed-race, what's your story?"

He got off lightly, really he did, with the blast that Emma gave him. I'd seen her knee guys in the groin for attempts at discerning her racial origin that were less clumsy. It had taken me years, and a couple of rather heavy late-night drinking sessions to get the story of Emma's family out of her. Her mother had been a working class Japanese girl, tending bar on an American air force base, when she met Emma's father, a pilot on leave from the Vietnam War. When her mother had fallen pregnant, her father had actually done the decent thing and married her, only to be blown up in an ambush less than a month later. Five months pregnant and already a widow, Emma's mother had scraped together the remains of her husband's savings and flown to America to throw herself on her in-laws kindness, only to find that her new family were somewhat less than inclined to be charitable to someone they perceived only as being of the same race that had blown up their only son.

Emma was, as a result, conflicted, to say the least, about her family, and quite understandably prone to veritable explosions of social justice when questioned about her race. But in an odd way, it had been one of the things we'd first fought over, then bonded over, back in those early days of the band, tentatively exploring our friendships. 

I'd told her that I felt caught between two cultures myself, never quite sure if I was English or American, and never really fully able to choose either if it came down to it. After busting my chops for six months that a white girl could presume to know what it was like, she'd finally confessed in a drunken moment that she'd never really known what her mixed heritage meant, denied by her African-American family, while her mother, fearful lest her American daughter pick up a humiliating "foreign accent," had refused to talk to her in Japanese, and sat her wordlessly in front of Sesame Street to learn English.

It was odd, though, the disparity between the things you learned about your bandmates in late night drunken talks in the back of the van, and things you learned about your bandmates during official press interviews. Sometimes I couldn't believe we were the same group of four people, dizzy and vulnerable when we were by ourselves, yet fearless and spurring one another on to new heights of bravado during interviews. But Larry Liar, either through sheer social incompetence, or maybe brilliant journalism skills, managed to peel that layer back and get deep enough to irritate us.

 

It wasn't an easy interview, in fact, after our initial burst of frivolity, the awkward questions left us all feeling somewhat tender and exposed. I wanted to smooth over my rough edges in the best way I knew how, to blot it all out with substances and fucking. So I didn't really mean to, but somehow I ended up back at Jeremy's flat for another session of kinky sex and illicit drugs. 

It didn't seem to matter to him what he took, so long as it got him out of his head, but I wanted something a little more intellectually stimulating than the usual smear of alcohol and cocaine, so the next morning, when his mate rang up with the offer of a sheet of acid, I leapt at the chance. I laughed at Jeremy when he told me he'd never done it before, and washed down two brightly coloured little squares of paper with a mouthful of orange juice.

We stumbled around together in a hallucinatory daze, popping more LSD whenever the grey tendrils of reality started to encroach on our little dream. At first, it was fun, experiencing everything through a new set of eyes as we dashed about his apartment, but after a few hours, it became more and more clear what different experiences we were having. I wanted to philosophise endlessly about the sparks of insight that were flashing across my brain, but Jeremy merely looked at me blankly, smiling his sweet smile, then tearing off to find some other stereophonic marvel to listen to. Lying with his head between the speakers, he waxed enthusiastic, trying to put into words the visions dancing through his head. 

For a few minutes, I stared at him, watching the scarlet of his hair undulate, then I grew bored and turned away, slightly annoyed. All the wonderful dancing paisley patterns crawling over the ceiling were merely wallpaper for the intellectual fireworks exploding in my head. For an eternal instant, the vast chain of interconnected being shone perfectly visible, the Grand Unification Theory linking all energy and mass around a single equation. Time was energy, space was matter, lit up in neon gridwork across the tile floor of the kitchen. The tiles were symbols, letters and numbers of some arcane and esoteric secret language, slotting together like a giant crossword puzzle, spelling out the answers to the eternal questions. But no matter how many times, I tried to explain it to Jeremy, he only shook his lovely head in total lack of comprehension.

Giving up, I climbed to my feet and scoured the apartment for something interesting to read. At that moment, I finally put my finger on what exactly it was that had been bothering me about the place all along. Piles of magazines littered the floor, along with the ubiquitous CD's and occasional videotape, but there was not a book in sight. 

"Jeremy, don't you ever read?" I ventured, searching in vain through a bookshelf that held only comic books. 

"Sure, I read," he replied defensively, finally sitting up at the end of Astronomy Domine. 

"What was the last thing you read?"

He had to stop and think for a moment. "Up and Down With the Rolling Stones by Spanish Tony Sanchez," he announced with a grin.

"Do you even know what this song is about?" I practically snarled. 

He shrugged, puzzled by my annoyance. "I haven't the faintest clue. Just some nonsense of Syd Barrett's, I assume." 

"They're the names of planets and their moons," I snorted contemptuously, trying to find my shoes in the piles of clothing on the floor of his room. 

"Where are you going?" he asked, following me into his room with that sad, lost puppy expression on his face that meant he felt he was being ignored. 

"Jeremy, I need to go home. I need to shower, I need to change my clothes, I need to... to... I need to sit down with a good book, and just..." I wanted so desperately to be alone, but he wrapped his arms around me and tried to pull me into another embrace. 

"You can't leave now... I'm horny," he mumbled into my neck as he started to nuzzle me behind the ears. 

"Jeremy, I'm tired, I'm smelly, I'm sweaty..." I tried to bat him away, but he was insistent, pulling me down onto his bed, pushing my dress out of the way to kiss my breasts. 

"Just the way I like you," he insisted.

"I have to leave at some point..." 

Pulling back, he stared down at me with those impossibly blue eyes, endless empty wells. "Just not now. I need you here with me, now." 

I was exhausted, I was hungry, I was filthy, and I knew that there was more to LSD than being groped by Jeremy Kane, but against my better judgement, I found myself giving in, kissing him back gently, then more urgently. He barely had me inside his bedroom before he grabbed me from behind, pushing me up against the nearest wall and forcing practically his entire tongue into my mouth. For a few minutes, we stood there, exploring each others mouths, as he pushed my skirt up over my hips, trying to get his hands between my legs, then we slid together down to the floor. Without bothering to remove our clothes, we strained against each other, rolling around, delighting in the electric sensation the pressure of each others bodies seemed to be causing on our newly heightened nerve endings. When we finally pulled apart, the wild light in his eyes frightened me slightly. I started to back off, slowly drawing back, until I broke away, giggling madly as I took off away from him. He pursued, chasing me around the bed a few times, laughing maniacally until he finally lunged across the back of it, caught me and pulled me down on top of him. 

As he nibbled at my skin, running his tongue down my neck and across my stomach, searching towards the patch off hair between my legs, I had to marvel at the change in him. Was this the same sweet, innocent little boy that had been afraid to come in my mouth only a week ago? Digging my fingers into his hair, I held him there, marvelling at the sensations his tongue was producing. When I could barely stand it any more, I yanked him back, pulling his mouth up to mine and sucking hungrily at his lips. His body slid between my legs so easily, with that familiar shock as he pushed his way inside. As he slid back and forth, the motions of his hips caused ripples of pleasure to run up my spine, crossing over from physical sensation to magenta waves across my vision as the drug took over. His entire body seemed bathed in a reddish light, as if I could see the heat emanating from his skin. 

When I could hold back no longer, I let go and fell, down, further and further into a spiralling hole of sensations. My skin was on fire, my whole body a giant spring being wound tighter and tighter until finally the water reached up and sucked me in, my flesh merging with the water, ripples, waves, tidal waves washing over me. With a strangled cry, I fell back against the floor and panted for breath, no longer fighting the purple and green tendrils that were crawling across my vision. 

By the time we finally left the apartment more than a day later, there was a gnawing feeling of unease growing in the pit of my stomach. I had tried to sneak out while he was asleep, but he stirred softly, and kissed me with such a tenderness that I felt almost guilty for the resentful thoughts clouding my emotions. 

"Hey, did you sleep well?" he asked, gently pushing my hair out of my face and peering up at me. 

I nodded. "I needed that."

"So what do you want to do today?" 

"I should go home and pack..." I sighed. "But I don't really feel like it." Flopping back on the couch, I stared up at the glow in the dark stars that I had stuck on his roof. "I want to go to the park, is what I feel like doing. It's spring, the trees are going to be in bloom, I want to sit somewhere in the middle of a big field where I can't even see a building." 

"There are places like that in New York?" asked Jeremy incredulously. 

"You've never been to Central Park?" He shook his head. "Well, put on your boots, we're going," I told him, skipping out of bed to the shower before he could catch me. 

An hour later, we climbed out of a taxi at the corner of 58th and Fifth. I had fallen into tour guide mode, pointing out the various sites around New York. "And there is the famous Plaza Hotel, where the Beatles stayed in the 60's..." 

"Oh, wow... it's beautiful," gasped Jeremy. Winding along the endless paths, he started to bound like an excited puppy. As we left the main road and headed up through the rocky hills of the Rambles, he was beaming like a tiny child. "This looks like home... except at home, you can't see skyscrapers over the tops of the trees." As we broke free of the trees and wandered out into a vast expanse of grass, Jeremy laughed like a silvery chime of little bells, bent over and rolled into a whole series of somersaults. Suddenly, he stopped, flopping back onto the grass, staring up at me with an expression of perfect contentment on his face. "Oh, you should come back to St.Cloud with me... I swore I'd never go back there when I left, but oh, it is so beautiful up there. All the lakes, and the way the pine trees climb almost to the top of the mountains..." 

"Why did you leave if you loved it so much?" I asked, gently reclining next to him. 

He shrugged. "I ran away. I just couldn't take it any more, the funny looks people gave me as I'd walk down the street, the way they'd talk about me behind their back when they thought I couldn't hear... I used to get beaten up in the boys locker room in high school. Even my mom called me a faggot cause I dyed my hair," he sighed, running his fingers absentmindedly through his flame coloured locks. "I wanted to prove to them, I wanted to make something of myself - I want to go back there in a limousine that wraps around the block twice, rub it in their faces." He stared up at me plaintively. "You'll go with me, won't you?" 

If he hadn't looked so utterly serious, I probably would have laughed in his face, but something in his expression stopped me in my cynicism. Biting back my sarcastic comments about trophy wives, I found myself bending over to kiss him. "Of course..." 

Suddenly, he stopped and cocked an ear as if listening very intently. "You know, there's only one thing in this world that makes a noise like that..." Singing along, he started to hum a circus-like tune, then opened his eyes incredibly wide. "Is there a carousel around here?" 

"I think there's one in the children's' playground, near the old dairy... but they won't let us on it; we're too old!" 

"Nonsense! Come one! Lead the way!" 

Maybe it was his primary coloured hair, or his cartoonish clothes, or maybe it was just his characteristic Midwestern charm, but children stared at Jeremy, they just couldn't get enough of him. At the carousel, a little boy looked up at Jeremy with something approaching hero worship, tugging at his jeans to get his attention. Jeremy smiled broadly at his parents, obviously persuading the mother that he was not a paedophile or an axe murderer, then grinned back at the child. "Are you a rock star?" the boy asked incredulously, reaching out to touch his hair. 

"Actually, yes, I am," Jeremy assured him, helping him up onto the horse. "Careful, now, let's get the strap around your waist so you don't fall off..." As he climbed up onto the horse next to his young charge, he shot me a playful wink. "He's got your eyes, Gordon." For a second, utter panic shot through me at the thought, but I said nothing, letting him have his little world of make believe for a short while longer. 

After a few precious minutes, our young friend was returned safely to his mother, but Jeremy's face was shining as we walked away. Wrapping his arm tightly around my waist, he kissed my cheek, but I saw the way his eyes lingered on the family as they walked away, and had a faint premonition that this was the last moment of true peace I was going to know for a long time. 


	9. Butterfly-Impaling Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy slams hard up against reality, first, as The Charms survive their first NME cover story, then as Kate Charms takes her new boyfriend to the UK to meet her friends - with predictably disastrous results.

Just before sundown, we finally left the park, trekking back to the subway, riding hand and hand, in deep but peaceful silence until we finally parted ways at the Astor Place station. I stopped at a news-stand on my long walk back to Beth's apartment, and practically jumped up and down when I saw the cover of Melody Maker. Four pairs of confident, arrogant eyes stared back at me from a dark and seedy corner of the Lakeside Lounge, underneath blazing yellow type that read "Charmed, I'm Sure! by Larry Liar." Our first magazine cover, this was a moment that didn't come twice in one's life. Resolving to mail one to everyone I'd ever known, I bought every copy the man had, with the exception of one that he insisted I sign, then hung up over the counter.

Practically skipping back to Beth's apartment, I ran up all five flights of stairs then burst into her room. "Have you seen? Have you seen? Oh my god..." 

Shooting bolt upright, Beth hurriedly threw a sheet over the sleeping body next to her. "What?!" 

"What's going on?" drawled a tired male voice from under the blanket. Thick with sleep, the Brummie twang to his vowels was unmistakably strong. "Who is it?" 

"Oh, only her jealous and possessive husband," I chirped gaily, holding up the newspaper with our cover photo so she could see. 

Beth's eyes lit up and she covered her mouth with her hand. "Wow... I didn't know it was out." The man beside her stirred and pulled the sheet back to reveal an oddly familiar squarely handsome face.

I stared, I couldn't help it. It wasn't every day that you saw the icons of your childhood thrust absurdly into your domestic world, curiously familiar, yet strangely exotic. He still seemed somehow two-dimensional, like a poster, airbrushed and unreal, his skin slightly too tight, too tanned, his teeth too white, his cropped Caesar hair tipped too perfectly at the ends with sunkissed blond streaks. He even smelled wrong, a slight medicinal tang of cosmetics and preservative, and I noticed a fine spiderweb lattice of lines around his mouth, the hints of make-up caked around the corners of his eyes.

"Hang on, sweetie," Beth told him, kissing him softly, then putting her finger to her lips, hissing "Shhhhh!" at me and pointing to the living room. After a few moments, she emerged, wrapped in a man's silk shirt that was large enough to be her dressing gown. "Where did you get this?" 

"Hot off the press this morning!" I announced proudly, and we both flung ourselves onto the couch to devour it. 

"Goddamit," sighed Beth after the first page. "What is it with these damn journalists? He spends more time discussing what we look like and what we're wearing than the actual music we make." 

I burst out in hysterics reading his breathily superlative description of Beth. "Elizabeth Blair is, to put it mildly, intimidatingly beautiful up close. Auburn hair falls over startlingly violet eyes that seem to penetrate everything her gaze falls on. Those eyes _demand_ attention, those eyes transcend any question a mere mortal like myself could throw at her. Caught like an insect on a pin, I am utterly unable to think of anything halfway intelligent to ask her, under the spotlight of that stare."

"Cut it out," she snorted, grabbing the magazine from me. "Yeah, well, listen what he has to say about you... In direct counterpoint is the bassist at the opposite end of the couch. Kate Gordon, with her long, tousled blond hair and even longer legs, draped in a thigh-baring paisley minidress that leaves little to the imagination, is the band's token ex-pat Brit. 'Oh, my parents were part of the great British Brain Drain of the mid-80s' she explains with a casual shrug. What she omits to mention is that her father, Richard Gordon, was a conceptual artist who exhibited work at the Indica Gallery with the likes of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and her parents were fixtures on the Swinging London Chelsea Set of the mid-60's, before eventually following their peers into tax exile in the States." 

" _What_?!?!" I demanded, utterly livid, my face turning bright red in rage. "What the hell are they doing printing that? What the hell does it have to do with our music? For a start it's not even true... tax exile? My parents were flat broke when we came to America. Wait, Beth. What the hell are you doing?"

Beth was stalking around the room making intense faces at the furniture. "I'm practising impaling inanimate objects with my pin-like gaze. Come on, it's hysterical, don't you think?"

I scoured the article for further offence. "If he even mentions Jeremy, I'm going to sue..." 

"Too late," laughed Beth, seizing the paper from me and reading out loud. "Unfortunately, the Charms have become noted not so much for their brilliant, sparkling perfect pop music, as for their complex love lives. But with significant others like this, it's hard not to notice when they turn up in the tabloids. Elizabeth has been constantly in the limelight, turning heads when she steps out with 'close friends' and self admitted childhood role models, AbSynth." 

Suddenly my mouth dropped open in recognition as I remembered the man in her bedroom. "That's, that's... That's Gary Goode!"

"Hush! You'll wake him up!" she whispered, turning the page and continuing. "Meanwhile, Kate has caused rumours of her own, first with an affair with Tristram Thornaby-Gore of neo-hippie psychedelicists Crest, then being flown around the states on Alex from Slur's tab, ostensibly as a 'roadie.'"

"I'll kill him! He fucking promised! That fucking bastard stitched us up!" I howled.

"Apparently, though, she has finally found domestic bliss with current 'ball and chain,' American pop-punk teen heartthrob, Jeremy Kane." She looked up with a wink. "How do the other two react to their bandmates staggering amount of publicity? Tiny ball of spitfire energy and blue-streaked punk rock hair, Emma Noguchi ('Half Japanese, half Irish-African-American-Cherokee and fucking proud of it,' she explains with a ferocious glare when I ask her about her unusual surname and exotic looks) rolls her eyes and burps loudly. 'Boring! next question!'"

" _Exotic_? Oh my god, Emma's going to hit the roof when she sees this. I expect the Maker offices to be hit with a letter bomb at any moment," I sniggered.

"'Some of us live for loftier goals than just seeing our names dropped by the 3AM Girls,' she snorts contemptuously. And how about Madeleine Cerbone, their understated but friendly drummer? In the constant chatter of her band's habit of talking over one another, often simultaneously, her voice sometimes gets lost, but she is very much the heart of the band, both emotionally and musically. She acts much like a mother hen, rounding up the other girls when they drift too far apart, smoothing feathers and soothing rivalries. Yet despite her central role, she remains self effacing and quiet about her personal life. 'Nothing to tell, really. I live with my husband and three cats in the same old Italian part of Brooklyn where we both grew up. Very mundane and boring. Sorry,' she shrugs. Rather modestly omitting the fact that her husband is Carlos C, once known as the flamboyant drummer for the notorious East Village legends, the Jesus Sugarpussy, formerly the centre of the most vibrant social scene of late 80s / early 90s, where downtown rock'n'roll met the uptown art crowd."

"You know," I noted annoyedly. "In twenty-seven paragraphs, there are six about our relationships and social lives, eleven about our looks - including at least two slightly suspect racial comments - another three about our clothes, and two to provide setting description of the Lower East Side. Which leaves precisely... five. Five paragraphs about our music. Most of which is that story about how we all met." 

"Nope, there's exactly one about our music. Let me find it... Here it is!" she flipped back and forth between pages mostly taken up with huge colour photographs. "Madeleine most succinctly sums up the band's disparate musical influences. 'Beth loves good, sappy, happy pop music. Big weepy ballads, bouncy melodies, girl group harmonies - that's her thing. The only person I know who owns every Bananarama record ever made. Emma's a punk, she likes totally unlistenable noisy things recorded in someone's garage on a boom-box, preferably played on scratched vinyl. Three chords and shouting, and she's in heaven. Kate's the texture head - everything's got to be drenched in psychedelic effects, whether it's 60's Garage or Krautrock - she's the one that you find singing along with the vacuum cleaner. Just stick sitar or drone on anything - she'll listen to it. And me? Oh, dance music all the way. Disco, techno, house, Detroit or Chicago, Jeff Mills or Acid Trax, I love it. It's the beat. I like to dance, I have to be able to move to the music.'" 

"Actually, that's pretty accurate," I admitted. "Too bad he didn't come up with it, but stole Maddie's words."

"Yeah, she comes out sounding like the most intelligent of all of us. I come off like an arrogant twat, Emma comes off like a grumpy old man, you come off like a complete lunatic nymphomaniac..." 

"Well, she was the only one who was nice to him," I countered. At that moment, the phone rang. I answered it, only to go through the same irate ritual with an utterly indignant Emma. Rolling her eyes, Beth retreated back to the bedroom to leave me to deal with her. 

"You know, there are other members of the band than you and Beth," raged Emma. "Once in while, I'd like to read something about my guitar style, rather than Beth's and your pathetic love lives! They don't pull this shit with male bands, you know. Look at your little plaything and his sugar coated band. They're a band that got where they are solely on their looks, but no one accuses them of it. Their reviews talk about their _chops_ not their cheekbones."

Biting my tongue, I refused to rise to the bait, not wanting to get into a discussion of Jeremy. "You know, Emma, I agree with you," I sighed. 

"Then why do you keep giving them more to feed off?" she accused. 

"What, I'm supposed to live the life of a nun so the press doesn't get the wrong idea about us?" Emma paused, obviously thinking, then asked for Beth. Eyeing the closed door, I considered knocking, but from the tell-tale squeak of the bedsprings, decided against it. "She's still asleep," I lied, deciding to give her a few more minutes living out her teenage fantasies. 

"Well, I'm coming over there to wake her up." 

"Emma, that's not a good idea," I protested, but she'd already hung up. Damn! 

Before I had even I hung up, the other line went. "What the living fuck was that article about? Could he have been any more patronising? I feel completely betrayed by that interview, to be honest."

"Yeah, I know, Maddie. I've already been through it with Emma. She's a ranty lunatic, Beth's a butterfly-impaling harlot, and I'm a total slut."

"At least you _have_ personalities!" yelped the normally unflappable Maddie. "I'm just a racist fucking stereotype of the Mamma Mia Italian matriarch!"

"Oh boy... I sighed. "I know, Mads, look, I totally know. Shit, I have to go, that's the doorbell, I better go buzz Emma in..." I hung up the phone, picked up the intercom and buzzed the door open.

Deciding that avoidance was the best plan of action, I headed for the bathroom for a desperately needed shower, leaving Emma and Beth to scrap without me. The acid was pretty much gone from my bloodstream, but the after-effects combining with my lack of sleep made the interplay of the water drops on the tiles incredibly fascinating to my tired brain. After a wonderfully long soak, I finally emerged from the hot water and wrapped myself in clean jeans and my favourite sweater. 

As I opened the bathroom door, the sound of voices arguing heatedly filtered through. Stepping out into the living room, I saw through Beth's open bedroom door the almost comical scene of the tiny Emma pugnaciously facing off against the incredibly tall but obviously intimidated Gary Goode. "I think I had better leave," he ventured nervously, turning back to Beth and kissing her softly on the cheek. The Birmingham taint to his accent was gone, his voice was carefully clipped, his vowels studiedly plummy. "Call me when you get into London, alright, darling?" 

"You're damn right you'd better leave!" hissed Emma at his retreating back, then slamming the door after him. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Beth?" 

"You're not my mother, all right?" snapped back Beth, now back in her own dressing gown. "What I do is none of your business!" 

"Have you totally lost your mind? Beth, he is a married man!" 

"In name only," protested Beth. "He and Yvonne only stay married as a formality for the sake of the kids." 

"Is that what he told you? Christ, I can't believe you fell for that! That's the oldest line in the book! You're acting like a starstruck teenage groupie, totally forgetting any sense of morality you ever had." She stomped around the room, pacing like the nuns back at Convent School, until her eyes fell on a mirror lying on the coffee table. "And Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?" she accused, holding it up. "Is he getting you into coke?" 

Beth looked around wildly, her eyes falling on me as she tried to drag me to her defence. "Well, it's no big deal. Kate does it, too!"

"Now, don't try to bring me into this!" I protested, throwing up my arms in deference.

Emma gasped, staring from one of us to the other. "Are you both totally and completely fucking insane? What, you're rock stars now, so you have to indulge your little habits?" 

"Oh, but it's perfectly fine to drink yourself into a stupor every night at some Lower East Side dive bar, but I can't indulge in a little aphrodisiac once in a while," countered Beth.

"It's not the same thing!" snarled Emma.

"Yes, it is!" shot back Beth, staring her down. Emma finally fell silent. "Look, we're all under a lot of pressure right now, and we have different ways of working it off." 

"Mucking about with a stupidly dangerous drug when you are about to embark on a world tour is not exactly a good way of dealing with pressure, in my humble opinion," replied Emma very quietly. I stopped and stared at her carefully - when Emma shouted, that was perfectly normal, but when she grew this calm, that meant that she was deathly serious. "You forget, Beth, I've known you for ten years, and when you feel pressure, you respond by doing such incredibly self destructive things that you have no one but yourself to blame for failure. Please, we are on the verge of seeing all our dreams come true - don't fuck it up for us by throwing your heart at some arrogant prick of a rock star who is so far in a drug-induced dream world that he doesn't care who he drags down with him." 

Beth shook her head. "You have him so wrong, Emma." 

"God, for your sake, I honestly hope so, Beth," sighed Emma. 

Leaving them to their conversation, I padded back out to the living room to try and pack my clothes, only to be greeted by the familiar sight of my laptop staring at me from the coffee table. Shit... I hadn't checked my e-mail in nearly a week. Sifting through the usual sea of junk mail, get rich quick schemes and mailing list flames, I saw no less than four emails from a familiar address. 

 

To: Kate@thecharms.com  
From: Alex@slur.co.uk 

Subject: Running for office!

Hey, there, stalwart bass tech! Comment ca va?  
Damien and I came up with the most fabulously amusing prank while at his club the other night. I was going off on one of my usual rants about the state of politics, and he suggested since I was so full of wonderful ideas, why didn't I run for office? So we started some bullshittery session with my friend, who just happens to edit a magazine  - you know that bloke who's always plying us with the old absinthe  - and he thought it was perfectly hysterical. They agreed to fund it as some promotional stunt cum ironic statement on the farcical nature of the current state of political campaigns. Why not run a good for nothing Soho idler for an MP? They said they'll pay for everything, all I have to do is show up to a couple of banquets and be interviewed - nothing I can't handle, c'est non?  
Damon is having an utter purple and blue fit, of course, saying I'm going to make a fool of myself and the band - he's just jealous that they didn't pick him, undoubtedly.  
Will you make a few comments on my behalf, saying that you support me as a candidate? If Margaret Thatcher can get the Spice Girls, I can go one better!  
Looking forward to your big album release party,  
Alex 

 

Dated a few days later was another note: 

To: Kate@thecharms.com  
From: Alex@slur.co.uk 

Subject: Where are you?  

Kate, where are you? I need to know about that statement. They're putting me on the cover of the next Idler, and they want statements and character references from all my friends.  
Let me know, OK?  
Alex 

 

The next day: 

 

To: Kate@thecharms.com  
From: Alex@slur.co.uk  
Subject: Are you speaking to me? 

Kate, I know you're busy, but can you at least let me know, yes or no?  
If I've offended you in some way, I'm terribly sorry.  
Alex 

 

And then finally: 

 

To: Kate@thecharms.com  
From: Alex@slur.co.uk  
Subject: Oh 

Never mind. I just got the new MM, and I see you're otherwise engaged.  
Let me know if you still want me at your party.  
A. 

 

Staring at the computer screen, I felt as if I'd just been slapped. Oh, shit... he had every right to be angry at me, even if I could smell the sarcasm coming through the internet. What kind of friend was I that would abandon him and not even do him a small favour, totally ignoring him to run off and shack up with some new boyfriend. 

Guiltily, I picked up the phone and dialled his number, hoping that I would catch him before he headed out on one of his customary nightly jaunts. The phone rang once, twice, then an obviously intoxicated voice picked up and announced "Jones campaign headquarters!" 

"Alex, is that you?" 

"No, love. Damien Hearse, campaign manager and minister of misinformation. Anything Mr. Jones says to anyone goes through me." 

"Can you tell him it's Kate?" 

"Ah, Kate! You are going to come out in support of our boy, aren't you?" he guffawed heartily. 

"Of course. Is he there? I'd like to speak to him..." 

"Alex..!" he called. "We have the elusive Ms. Gordon on the line!" 

A few moments later, he picked up the extension. "Hello... Kate?" 

"My god, Alex... I'm so terribly sorry - I haven't checked my mail in a week. I only just got your messages. Of course, I'd love to support your so-called political career." 

"Oh, good. I was beginning to think you were very angry at me. Then I thought... well, never mind." 

"I know, I'm behaving like one of those terrible women whose mind goes out the window and forgets all her friends as soon as she has a boyfriend." 

He paused, and there was silence for quite some time. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded strained. "Well, I'm very happy for you. I hope, erm, he's erm... oh, sod it. Do you still want me to go to your party, or would that be awkward?"

I laughed out loud. "What would be awkward about it? Would it make you uncomfortable?" 

"No, no, not at all," he stuttered. "I was just wondering how, erm... how... _he_... would erm, react..." 

"Jeremy?" He seemed unwilling to even say the name. "What's there for him to react over?" 

"Well, if you're comfortable with it, I'm comfortable with it," he announced, as if he was trying to convince either me or himself. "So, about this statement thing - can you come round and toss some ideas around?" 

"Erm, we're going to arrive in England tomorrow afternoon. How about we meet up at the Groucho later in the evening?" I suggested.

"Brilliant. I'll see you then."

The next afternoon, the four members of the band, accompanied by one manager, two roadies, one husband and one boyfriend, stepped out of the private lounge at Heathrow, to be greeted by a gaggle of paparazzi flashing bulbs in our eyes. Jeremy beamed, wrapping his arm around me for maximum effect. Snuggling demurely up against him, for the first time in my life, I actually felt famous. _'A celebrity is a person who gets their picture taken every time they go through an airport.'_ Why did that sound suspiciously like something Alex would say? Every time I saw the familiar buildings of Heathrow, my spirits leapt with some uncanny premonition that I was coming home. A car was waiting for us at the curb, champagne chilling in the bar in our hotel room. Ah, I could get used to this, I thought to myself as I poured drinks all round. After we got settled into our hotel, I called Alex.

Suddenly, Jeremy didn't want to go out, begging jetlag, and claiming he wanted to stay at the hotel. "Well, fine. Have a nice nap," I told him. "I'm going to the Groucho." 

Jeremy pouted sullenly. "Well, wouldn't you rather stay with me? I mean... you know, I am your boyfriend."

"No, don't you start this, as well. You don't want to go cause Alex is going to be there." He nodded contritely. "Look, Alex is my best friend. You just have to get used to that. You don't want to add any more fuel to those unfounded rumours by getting upset at him, do you?" Sitting down beside him on the bed, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed the tip of his pointed nose. "Come on..." 

"Oh, all right..." he finally conceded. "But can't we just..?" 

So that was the bargain; a quick roll in the hay to bolster his ego in exchange for his presence at the Groucho. Well, fine. If I looked slightly flushed and shagged out, it would only add to my reputation, though Emma stared daggers as we kissed and giggled in a post-coital daze during the cab ride over. 

Alex, as always, was a fixture at the snooker table, his ever present cigarette dangling from his mouth as he eyeballed his next shot. Bounding over, I plonked myself down in his way. "Should I move? Am I blocking your shot?" I ventured. 

His game forgotten, he straightened up, his face lighting up as he saw me and threw his arms around me, lifting me bodily off the floor in a huge bear hug. "Kate! You're finally here! Oh, you've got to meet Damien - oh, and Tom is supposed to make an appearance tonight - that's the bloke from the magazine, and..." he babbled on drunkenly, totally ignoring Jeremy standing slightly behind me until I prodded him. "Oh, hullo." 

"Alex, this is Jeremy - Jeremy, this is the infamous Alex Jones." 

They looked each other up and down like young lions for a long minute, before Alex finally smiled louchely and offered his hand. "Delighted to meet you." 

"Yeah, me too," mumbled Jeremy, obviously intensely jealous. Trying to reassure him, I wrapped my arm around his waist possessively and gave Alex my best impression of a blissful smile. 

"Come on - we've got a booth back here somewhere. I'll buy you both a drink," he offered, taking me by the arm as he escorted us back into the darker recesses of the club. "Oh, look - Tom's here! Hooray! This reprobate is Damien, my very best friend in the world. Chaps, this is Kate, and I'm sorry, what was your name again?" 

"Jeremy," my partner practically growled in response.

Damien stood up slowly, his babyface belied by the stubble dusting his wolfish grin as he took my hand in his and brushed his lips across my knuckles, bowing deeply. "It is an utter pleasure to make your acquaintance!" 

Jeremy fumed, his face a stormcloud. 

"Likewise," I laughed. "I've heard so many stories about you." 

"Lies! All lies, I assure you!" he thundered, shaking an accusing finger at Alex. He was an odd-looking man, small, stocky and Northern, with a cloud of curly, shoulder-length dark hair and an aggressively pointed nose, but his piercing blue eyes and his disarming little-boy grin made me warm to him immediately.

"So you are the masterminds behind this farcical campaign?" I ventured, squeezing in between Alex and Jeremy to divert any further unpleasantness. "Alex Jones for Prime Minister, or whathaveyou?" 

Damien roared with laughter. "Oh, oh, that's brilliant. Alex Jones at Number 10 - can you imagine? What a cabinet we'd make." 

"Imagine what?" inquired Jeremy slowly, obviously feeling very left out of the joke.

"Alex is running for a seat in Parliament." 

"What, him?" demanded Jeremy, contemptuously pointing at the rather dishevelledly drunken Alex, currently attempting to balance a slice of lime on his nose. 

"Yes, that's the brilliance of the joke," chortled Damien. "We spin the Spinners, as it were." 

"You mean, you're doing it as a joke?" gasped Jeremy. "That's fucking un-patriotic!" 

Alex turned towards him viciously. "The press have made a mockery of the democratic process, so why shouldn't we make a mockery of the press?" 

"England isn't a democracy," asserted Jeremy, completely missing the point. "You lot have kings and queens, I know you do. That's why we threw you out in 1776!" 

"Look, you ignorant little Yank, Britain had a parliament back when your country was still a vague splotch on a map labelled 'here be dragons.' Your government is based on our Magna Carta - you might know that if you ever bothered to actually read your own constitution," replied Alex snidely. 

Before Jeremy could respond, I laid my hand on his thigh. "Alex, why don't you go and get us those drinks you promised us?" 

The exact nature of Alex's attack had flown over Jeremy's head, but he knew he'd been insulted. "That man is a fucking asshole," he whispered in my ear as Alex headed towards the bar.

"He's just drunk," I assured him, kissing him softly. "Don't pay any attention." 

Jeremy fumed while the rest of the table tossed outrageous political commentary around, competing for the most outlandishly platform. As we batted elitist statements around playfully, I suddenly realised how much I had missed Alex. "Oh come on, nothing scares me more than the idea of true democracy. Do you know the best example of democracy at work in America? The Neilson ratings, and the Monday Night Television line-up." I snorted.

"I don't want crucial decisions about the future of the country being made for me by people whose idea of cultural literacy is knowing the names of every character on Eastenders, thank you!" Alex ranted uncontrollably, lighting what I always called his 'thinking cigarette.' This was stabbed at the air impatiently to demonstrate important points on its way between the ashtray and his mouth. 

"Eastenders is a Limey show!" offered Jeremy by way of defence. "Monday is Must See TV." 

Alex did not even dignify that with an answer, staring at Jeremy for a moment with the same pitying expression you'd give a small child before turning back to me with a dismissive air. "Anyway..."

"Give them their bread and circuses, keep them entertained and out of the way of anything truly important," I agreed, simply relieved to be around people who laughed at my jokes, instead of looking charmingly puzzled, the way Jeremy was wont to do. 

"Keep them so suspicious of the actions of those around them, then they will not notice the actions of those above them," added the man Alex referred to as Tom. 

"Precisely! Keep the underclass in a constant state of fear, the males at each others throats with gang warfare, or addicted to drugs. Suppress birth control, ban abortion, keep the females occupied and docile with a high pregnancy rate - so that we, the uberclass, can continue our lifestyle of elite drinking clubs and totally useless aesthetic diversions without fear of nasty revolutions," I proposed, raising my glass. 

"Hear, hear," toasted Alex in reply, knocking his glass against mine. 

Damien looked at me puzzledly, as if he couldn't figure out if I was joking or not. "You know, I'm not sure whether you have the most reactionary views I've ever heard posed, even by an American, or if you're just taking the piss." 

"Oh, but Kate's not an American," insisted Alex. "Drink up, and you'll hear, she's really one of us." 

"I'm not really a reactionary - I'm just playing devils advocate because I find it amusing to wind up lefties," I assured the artist with a wink. "I just can't be bothered to be a hypocrite and pretend I'm not an elitist. One can swing so far to the right that one finds oneself back on the left, and vice versa. Protect and preserve the Common People, but god forbid I should ever have to live like one of them!" 

"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others!" agreed Alex with another toast. Suspended in our own rapid-fire conversation, we were rapidly losing everyone else at the table. It was like a game to see who could say the more outrageous and provocative thing.

"All human beings are created inherently Unequal. That's what makes them human, their individuality. And that's a fundamental flaw with the idea of a meritocracy, isn't it?" I countered.

"It's a beautiful idea, that people should be treated equally, and afforded equal opportunity to succeed or fail on their own merits,"Alex mused. "But rather impractical to implement."

Tom interrupted, clearly fuming, as he swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker. "Impractical? It's like you don't even acknowledge that the playing fields you're talking about are massively unequal, Alex."

"Well, I'm all for levelling the playing fields... I certainly recognise that Privilege makes the very battleground unequal to start with," I conceded as I could see Tom staring at me open-mouthed from the corner of my eye, but in some drunken flash of naughtiness, I decided to deliberately try and provoke him. "But I do reserve the right to bigotry against the stupid and the deliberately ignorant. I'm not a racist, sexist or classist, but I do believe that those with an IQ under 120 should simply be taken outside and shot!" 

"Speaking of which, where's your appendage got to?" ventured Alex with an unmistakable smirk.

Turning around, I suddenly noticed that Jeremy was no longer beside me. "Oh, shit. Hang on, I've got to go find him."

"No, don't leave - this was just getting interesting!" protested Damien, his pale blue eyes dancing with merriment, clearly enjoying the tension at the table. "It's entertaining watching you and Alex get so pissed you finish each others sentences. I was hoping to get you two started deconstructing aesthetic sensibilities next."

"Oh, she's amazing at that, my little iconoclast," asserted Alex with a wink. "Tell them about taste, Kate!" 

"You know what Veblen says about Taste! It's just another way to prove your membership in the Leisure Class by demonstrating how much time and money you can conspicuously consume by acquiring it!" Oh boy, was I drunk, flying at top speed. 

Damien practically exploded in laughter, looping one arm around me to try and prevent me from leaving the table. "God, you are good! You simply have to marry me, Katie!" 

"I simply have to go and locate my missing other half," I sighed, stumbling to my feet and excusing myself. 

"More like locate the missing link," muttered Alex under his breath as I walked away. 

"I heard that!" I warned, punching him on the arm. Pushing his comments out of my mind as being based on sheer jealousy, I set off back through the club in search of Jeremy. Up at the bar, I ran into Emma, ordering about her tenth cocktail of the evening. "Have you seen Jeremy?" I demanded. She shrugged and pointed back towards the snooker tables. With a sigh of relief, I saw a familiar shock of red hair bending over the green of the game. "Jeremy!" I exclaimed, padding over to throw my arms around him. 

"Kate!" He scowled as he looked around hastily, then grinned with pleasure to see me alone. "William, have you met my girl, Kate?" 

Turning around, I stared at his opponent, suddenly recognising him as the man whose sofa I'd woken on, that first week that I had been in London. "Yeah, we met at Alex's a while back. Alex is a fucking cunt, but he throws a good party, he does." 

Jeremy laughed his agreement. "He's a fucking asshole alright." 

I bristled as he kissed me. Up close, I could see the tiny trail of white powder still caked on the tip of his nose. "Hey, man, don't even think of going for that red while my back is turned. I got my eye on you..." Letting go of my waist, he turned back to his game. 

"Just making sure you were OK," I sighed as I turned to rejoin my party. At least Jeremy had finally found a conversation more suited to his intellectual level. No, that was cruel; that sounded like something Alex would say. 

"Hey, where ya going?" he protested, turning back to me after sinking his shot. "Don't leave..." 

"Jeremy, do you need to have me on a dogchain twenty four hours a day?" I suddenly snapped. 

"Sheesh! What's that about?" he asked with a hurt look in his eyes. 

"Women! Fuck 'em!" exclaimed William from across the table. 

"I'm sorry," I apologised. "I haven't had much sleep in the past week - you know that." 

"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" he offered. 

"Pussywhipped! Stay and finish the damn game!" hooted William. 

Sitting down by the pool table, I agreed to stay with him for a little while, though in my heart, I desperately wanted to be discussing art and politics with the Big Boys back at Alex's table. That was where I felt at home, where I felt I belonged, not listening to Jeremy and William compare the merits of various football teams; I never knew Jeremy knew so much about soccer. Across the room, I could see how heated the conversation was getting as Tom and Alex baited another, with Damien egging them both on, though I could hear only snippets, like tantalising glimpses of a world whose existence I had only dreamed of. 

Taking a long swig of his beer, Alex picked up his cigarette, stabbed it pointedly at Damien, then transferred it to his lips. I didn't even realise I'd been staring at him until he glanced over at me, looked at his companions to add a comment, then glanced back, meeting and holding my gaze this time, staring at me with what could only be described as that same sense of longing that I'd just felt welling up inside me. For an implausibly long time, we just sat looking at each other, until finally he made a motion with his head as if beckoning me over. I shook my head, glancing back at Jeremy, still engrossed in his game, but Alex made a purely contemptuous face, beckoning me with a finger. Suddenly they all turned around, and I looked away, slightly embarrassed, as if I'd been caught doing something terribly secret and shameful. 

Grinning widely, Damien stood up, clapped Alex on the back and ambled over. With a wink at me, he sidled up to Jeremy. "Pardon me, old chap, but would you mind terribly if we borrowed your girlfriend for a few minutes," he asked in a ridiculously affected fake Cockney accent. 

"Erm..." Jeremy shot a look back at me, sitting patiently, waiting for him to finish his game, then shrugged. "Yeah, go ahead..." Damien, clearly, he did not find threatening.

Damien shot me an appalled look as I skipped back over to where they were sitting. "Where did you dig that specimen up from? I've never seen Alex so irritated. The poor boy's practically mooning over you." 

"I am not mooning," insisted Alex a little too forcefully as he slid over to allow me to sit next to him.

"I didn't mean you, but if the shoe fits," laughed Damien, winking and leering like a dirty old man. I couldn't decide if I utterly despised him or utterly adored him. 

The conversation was flying fast and furious as the empty drink glasses piled up on the table, barbed comments flipping back and forth between us like an elaborate dance. After a few drinks, I grew incredibly glib, but after several more, I started to lapse into an intoxicated but contented silence, listening to Tom bicker lazily with Damien over who was going to pick up the tab. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied Alex closely, memorising every eyelash around those sparkling dark eyes, mentally tracing the curve of his cheek as his mouth creased into a smile. 

"What's the matter?" he asked quietly. "You're awfully silent all of a sudden..." 

"I'm just drunk," I sighed, trying to shake myself out of my stupor. Without realising it, I had been leaning on him for support. "The fourth dimension is calling me. I should go." 

"Well, I'll see you soon, won't I?" 

"I'll see you at the record release party."

Somehow, against every impulse in my body, I managed to raise myself to my feet and pad back to the pool table where Jeremy and William were now engrossed in some intent debate over brands of beer. The endless days of drugs instead of sleep were finally catching up with me, and I was asleep as soon as we were in the taxi, waking only when Jeremy gently shook me to tell me that we were back at the hotel.


	10. Turn Off The Bright Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerves start to fray as the constant touring, endless travel, and tensions with unhappy partners left at home all take their toll, and the band do what bands have always done in that situation: drugs, drugs and more drugs.

Before I even had a chance to recover from my jet lag, I was whisked off with my band to the soundcheck for our second record release party of the month. As I fussed distractedly with my amplifier head, I caught sight of Jeremy sitting down in the theatre, and suddenly realised we'd been involved with each other for only weeks. Was that all? Why did it seem like so much longer? How had every press gossip column in the world managed to seize upon it? At times it seemed as if the entire relationship had been invented by the press and I was being bullied into it. Doubt clouded my mind as I yanked my eyes away from him back towards my gear. No, that wasn't true; I was just confused by being around Alex again. Why couldn't I separate the two? No matter what I felt towards Alex, he was uninterested and unavailable - and Jeremy, no matter what else he might or might not have been, was utterly and completely devoted to me. Mustering a smile, I winked at him, and his face lit up in a radiant smile.

After our soundtrack, I bounced offstage and ran up to him, showering his face with kisses. "What's this for?" he asked, responding in kind. 

"Nothing," I assured him, dragging him out for a few moments of privacy before the show. 

After a quick meal across the street, we returned to the venue to find the upstairs VIP lounge slowly filling with familiar faces. Journalists, musicians and the assembled scene-makers and hangers on were milling around impatiently, playing the see and be seen scene game. Jeremy was utterly in his element, greeting everyone he saw with genuine pleasure, while I hung back, watching him slightly enviously. Soon, we were surrounded by people I knew only from the music papers, swirling around us until I was almost relieved to see Jeremy's new best friend, William from Mirage. 

"Pre-gig treat?" offered William with a grin, producing an envelope of familiar powder. I shook my head, as I was feeling nervous and jittery enough to start with, but Jeremy accepted gratefully. 

Beth swooped out of nowhere for a second, long enough to say hello, and accept a snort, ignoring my disapproving look. "Don't even start with me," she hissed, scanning the crowd for Emma before she bent over to indulge. 

"I didn't say a thing," I sighed with a shrug.

Casting me the fisheye, she looked around surreptitiously, then disappeared again, leaving me to try my best to ignore Jeremy and William, now deep in another urgently important discussion of football. Glancing around, I searched the crowd desperately for some sign of intelligent life, then brightened as I looked towards the door. Standing on the stairs at the entrance to the club, Damon and Graham were scanning the room for any sign of friends, Damon as arrogant and self confident as if he owned the place, while Graham seemed as bored and slightly intimidated as I actually felt inside.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a familiar forelock of dark hair behind them. Waving wildly, I managed to catch Alex's eye and he flashed his marvellous grin and headed over towards us - and it was then that I saw the figure walking at his side, holding onto his arm with a smug aura of possession. 

"Kate!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around me joyfully, then pulling back as he noticed his date glaring at me. "Have you met my girlfriend, Mimi? Mimi, this is Kate" 

"We've met," she dismissed icily, looking me up and down perfunctorily, then glancing around the crowd to make it perfectly clear she was not impressed by me. "Sharon!" she finally exclaimed, waving to William's trophy girlfriend, clearly someone whose presence she more approved of. Detaching myself from the familiar ground of the our American friends, I followed Alex and Mimi over to the crowd of scenesters gathered around the Golden Couple of London. 

"Mimi!" replied Sharon bouncily as, and the two of them exchanged Hollywood starlet kisses on the cheek. "Oh, I love your dress, is that Prada?" 

"Oh, no, it's a McQueen," replied Mimi, turning around slowly to show off the full effect of her body. Even I had to admit, she was gorgeous, tall and dark, as thin as a rail with enormous lips and deep set eyes. She was beautiful, but she wasn't pretty, she was more an androgynous kind of handsome, and when she pushed a dark curtain of hair out of her face to light a cigarette, I realised with a start that she reminded me oddly of Alex.

As Mimi and Sharon engrossed themselves in a discussion of upcoming fashion shows, I found my eyes glazing over with boredom, until I saw Alex watching me with a bemused smirk.

"Come on - I thought you girls were supposed to be entranced with this sort of thing, shoes, handbags and posh frocks," he teased, bending over to whisper in my ear. 

"So why aren't you enjoying a good chinwag with the chemical brothers over there," I shot back, gesturing towards Jeremy and William. "Not interested in boy things like football scores and sportscars and page 3 girls?"

"Aren't you supposed to be onstage soon?" he replied, changing the subject with a grin. 

"Anyway, I read your official campaign platform in a magazine the other day, by the way. That was a good giggle." 

"Oh, you liked that. Thought you would," he laughed, lighting a cigarette. "Damien thinks we might actually have a vague chance of getting in. What a terrifying thought..." 

"You know, you laugh, but it actually happened to my Dad," I teased. "It was back in the early 70's, when the Labour party was having a big push to stand someone in every district. His mad friends convinced him to run in our local elections, because the Tory incumbent had won every election for about 20 years." I paused for effect, taking a swig of my drink. "Then, the eve of the election, the incumbent up and died of a heart attack. Even though he lost by a landslide, my father ended up on the County Council by default." 

Alex stared at me with a horrified expression. "God forbid! I think that scares me more than anything else - the idea that I might actually win and have to do something - it all looks suspiciously like work!" 

"It was work. For two years, we didn't even see my dad..." 

"Wait a minute!" he suddenly interrupted. "You told me your dad was an experimental artist."

"Errrr... he was, when I was a child."

"Then when we were on tour, you claimed he was a sound engineer."

"He was, more recently, when he was broke," I protested. "Experimental art was all over by the 80s when Post-Modernism came in, so he picked up cash building disco lights and sound systems for nightclubs. He was always kind of a jack of all trades."

He cast me a dubious glance. "I think you make this all up on the spur of the moment." 

"I do not! Truth is stranger than fiction!" 

"No, it's a much more impressive talent, to be able to think on your feet and spin stories. I love your mad stories, they're endlessly amusing."

"I'm not making this up," I insisted petulantly, turning away. "You never believe me when I talk about my actual life. I have to go - we're on soon."

"Kate..." he called after me, catching my arm as I tried to walk away. Realising that Mimi and Jeremy were now both staring at us, he dropped it clumsily. "I meant it as a compliment," he mumbled contritely and ambled back over to his girlfriend's side. 

Retreating backstage, I found my band in shambles. Emma ran over to me in a panic. "Have you seen Beth?" she demanded breathlessly. 

"Yeah, I saw her about 20 minutes ago. She was..." Remembering what exactly she was likely to be doing, I wisely shut my mouth. "I'll go check the ladies room, knowing her." Retreating back towards the bathroom, I found it locked, so I knocked insistently on the door. "Beth, I know you're in there! Open up now!" 

"OK, OK, just a minute..." came her harried voice in reply. After a few minutes, during which it became painfully obvious what it was I was interrupting, the door swung inwards to reveal Gary, grinning wolfishly as he tucked his exquisitely tailored silk shirt back into his tuxedo trousers. 

"I do not want to know what you were doing," I growled, pushing past him to see Beth in a somewhat dishevelled state, giggling guiltily. "Come on, get yourself cleaned up. We're on in about ten minutes." 

"Just a minute... can I have a little bit more charlie..?" I shot her a suspicious look; even Gary looked concerned for a moment, but she smiled sweetly. "Please...." Shrugging, he dug in his pocket and tossed something over to her. 

"Do you really need any more?" I ventured as tactfully as I could, but she ignored me. 

"I want to be ready to go onstage," she explained, wiping her nose clean, then running her hands through her tousled hair. "You're beautiful!" she told her reflection, then turned around, her violet eyes huge, but her pupils pinpricks. "We're gorgeous! London! Let's go!" She started to jump up and down excitedly, until I found myself caught up in her excitement. "You sure you don't want some?" 

I felt my convictions wavering, then bent over and accepted a quick snort. "We're gorgeous! London! Let's go!" I replied, hooking my arm through hers and skipping out, chanting in unison. 

We hit the stage in a shimmering bath of lights, borne up in a euphoria that surpassed any cocaine high. This was what I lived for, the huge wave of love given off by the audience. Up in the balcony, I could make out the figures of my friends, toasting me with immense glasses of beer - Jeremy and William, with Sharon and Mimi next to them. Where was Alex? Oh, there he was, a few tables over, deep in conversation with Damien. Catching my eye, he winked and waved, but I merely smiled mysteriously, refusing to let him steal our thunder again by acknowledging his presence. 

Song after song was greeted by thunderous applause. We were golden, we were perfect. Beth was pirouetting across the stage like a woman possessed, her eyes lit by a fiendish fire, drawing the audience towards her like metal filings to an electromagnet. Climbing up on top of the huge speaker stack at the edge of the stage, she stood like Moses parting the Red Sea, entranced by the way she could control the crowd, simply by raising or lowering her arms. Laughing hysterically and dropping the mike, she leant out over them, sending our road crew into an utter fit of paranoia. 

"God, Beth, get back here!" I hissed after her. 

"It's beautiful," she giggled back at me, teasing them with the promise or threat that she would jump in at any moment. The surging mass below her undulated with something resembling blood frenzy. Something truly self destructive glinted in her eye. "What do you think? Would they hold me up or would they tear me apart? Shall I find out?" 

Mercifully, she finally pulled back from the edge at the end of the guitar solo, finding the mike just in time to join in for the last chorus, swelling to its anthemic conclusion, then sweeping out on a wave of reverb, leaving the audience still singing along as we finally left the stage. 

"Ah, now the work is over and the real party begins!" announced Beth, grabbing a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter as we trooped upstairs to the VIP lounge. 

"What the hell were you thinking?" demanded Emma. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?" 

"Relax, it's not like you've never stage-dived," dismissed Beth, shaking the bottle up before she popped the cork, so that the bubbling wine exploded all over us.

"Not from a twenty foot speaker stack, you fool!" Emma sputtered, holding up her hands to stop the champagne from soaking her.

Out of nowhere, Jeremy appeared, throwing his arms around my neck and kissing me passionately. "You were brilliant!" he effused, picking me up bodily and swinging me around, then tripping over a table and stumbling backwards, sending us both sprawling across the floor. 

"Jeremy!" I yelped, but he merely guffawed, rolling around on the carpet. "You're fucking high as a kite, aren't you?" 

"So what?" 

Wriggling out of his grasp, I climbed to my feet, dusting myself off impatiently. All around me, drugs were flowing freely - William was offering me something at my elbow, but I waved him away, only to see Beth snatch it out of his hands. Everyone around me was talking at that same mind-numbingly rapid pace, but the tiny snort earlier had left me jittery, not wanting any more. "Am I the only person not completely out of my mind?" I muttered to no one in particular. Glancing around, I saw that even Maddie, usually the voice of reason among us, was pouring champagne down her throat, while her husband looked on somewhat disapprovingly. The sound system was throbbing, playing our album at deafening volume, so that conversation only filtered back to me in bits and pieces; Sharon and Mimi still engrossed in identifying the designer brands of every woman in the room, Beth whispering something about going back to the hotel, not to worry about her, Jeremy babbling some nonsense at me, then running off in another direction with William. Under the dim reddish party lighting, the entire room was writhing like some Dantean vision of hell; my head was swimming from the heat, so I detached myself from some vague attempt at conversation and headed off in search of the bar. 

"Water! Just iced water, please," I shouted at the barmaid, once I managed to get close enough to make myself heard, then wearily sank onto a stool that someone had gallantly vacated for me. Staring at an abandoned drink, I smiled helplessly at the barmaid and added a gin and tonic to my order. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I reflected as the soothing fuzz of alcohol wrapped itself lovingly around my brain. But no, this wasn't what I wanted, either. These media blitz schmoozefests intimidated the hell out of me, actually. It wasn't really going to help, simply being drunk enough to not notice the constant emotional onslaught of being a trained monkey on display at a dog and pony show. Sipping my gin and tonic, I slumped low in my seat, hoping no one would notice me as I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Off in another corner, Alex was standing with a glazed expression of boredom on his face as he listened to some overly enthusiastic journalist. Catching his eye, I beckoned him over and motioned to the empty seat beside me. With a relieved grin, he excused himself from the conversation and loped over, settling down next to me. 

"Please, tell me you're not also 93 million miles and climbing the walls on coke..." I sighed. 

"For once, no. I'm fairly pissed, though. Damien always does this to me. I have a fairly high tolerance, but that man can invariably drink me under the table. Drunk as a lord, I'm sorry to report," he apologised, shaking his head contritely. 

"God, this really is the sixth portal of hell, then." 

"I think I see a three-headed Satan over there - the editors of all three major monthly music journals," he sniggered. "I wouldn't like to be chewed by that lot..." Suddenly catching my expression as I lowered my head to the bar and tangled my fingers in my hair, he stopped in mid-comment. "Are you all right?" 

"Did you ever get the feeling that things are spinning so far out of control that... I dunno," I stuttered, suddenly very afraid. I couldn't even put my finger on it.

"That what? All your teenage dreams have come true and it's turned into a bit of a nightmare? Welcome to the life of the rock star!" he laughed, clinking his glass against mine. 

"Be careful what you wish for, you will always get it!" I sighed. "I always do, but not in the form I wanted. It's almost as if... you know, if I wished for a million dollars, I would wake up the next morning and find a million dollars all over my bed, lying next to a dead body that I had no idea how it got there, and the police banging down my door outside!" 

"It's not that bad," assured Alex. 

"I don't know... it's like my entire life has been plotted out for me, taken out of my control, beyond my grasp, for about the next six months. I don't know when I'm going to see Jeremy again after tonight. Hell, I don't even know if..." Catching myself just in time, I realised I had been about to say 'I don't even know if I even like Jeremy.' 

Obviously misinterpreting my garbled stuttering, Alex turned away from me, his face darkened to an unmistakable glower. "So what would you rather have? Would you rather be rotting away your life in a dole queue, wanting what you can't afford, lusting after people who'll never even look at you? I have everything I could possibly want handed to me on a silver platter - more money than I could spend in my entire life, a stunningly beautiful supermodel for a girlfriend, possibly a fucking political career for nothing other than looking good on the telly..." 

"So all you need to be happy is superficial things like a fucking shallow but beautiful woman with a room temperature IQ you can't even hold a conversation with for more than a minute?" I snarled, with somewhat more vipituousness than I had intended. 

"Oh, and you are one to be talking. The love of your life over there is hardly Nobel Prize material, is he?" he snapped back. 

"So if you have everything you need, why aren't you happy, either, then?" I accused. 

He stopped dead, growing almost angry. "I'm more fucking fantastically happy than I've ever been in my entire life at this moment." 

Shaking my head, I put down my drink, climbed off the barstool and walked out of the room, out into the cool night air, away from Alex, away from the whole sick scene inside, into a taxi and back to the generic hotel room that would be simply the first of a hundred identical rooms that were to be my home for the next six months. 

 

Lack of sleep, days of utter mind-numbing boredom, nights of brief but intense bursts of utter and complete transcendent bliss that somehow made the cramped bus quarters, the grotty motels and the Secondary Markets all worthwhile. In two months, criss-crossing America by bus, we managed to play 55 gigs, 12 live radio interviews, 2 television appearances, give literally dozens of interviews, and successfully negotiate one internet relay chat. It got to the point where if anyone asked me how I was, I would automatically reply "Hi, this is Kate Charms, and you're listening to KROQ..." or whatever the local radio station was.

After the first week, I gave up trying to keep track of the time zones or the cities. My body might have been in Los Angeles, but my brain was in New York, and my soul somewhere back in London. Sleep was something I was learning to catch in every conceivable position, on the bus, in backstage dressing rooms, in restaurants while waiting for our orders. I didn't even have time to think about missing Jeremy. If anything, after the weeks of constant exposure to him, I was almost relieved to find him diminished to a tinny voice at the end of the line, demanding vaguely unsatisfying phone sex. 

We travelled in a bubble, floating in our tourbus across the country, late night girlie heart to hearts as the country slid by beside us. 

"This is so strange," Maddie confessed to me, as we were driving through a seemingly endless stretch of desert under a silvery moon. "Did you ever think this was actually going to happen? That we'd be out on a massive world tour, an album on the charts, a video on MTV?" 

"I've barely had time to think about it," I sighed, folding up the cards we'd been playing. 

"I keep getting this panicked feeling, like 'Wow! It's finally happening - I should be taking notes,' cause you don't even have the chance to enjoy it while it's going on, you're just so damn busy trying to figure out where you are supposed to be and when." She paused, laying out another set of cards. "I wonder if I'm even doing the right thing... Carlos thinks it'll all be over in about a year, and it'll be a wasted year, just cut right out of my life, gone without a trace..." 

I stared at her in horror. "Carlos says that? Fuck him! He's just jealous cause he sold out, cut his hair and signed up for the nine to five writing advert soundtracks on Madison Avenue." 

"Perhaps," she conceded, staring past me out the window. 

"Even if it only does last a year, what will you have to show for this year? Damn, some amazing memories, no? What would we have to show for it if we hadn't done this?" 

"You'd be halfway to a degree in architecture," she pointed out. 

"And doing what with it? Designing doorknobs for mental hospitals in Minneapolis? No, thank you. I have no regrets," I asserted. "School will always be there." 

"Yes, but what if what you're leaving behind might not be there when you get back?" Her voice was very small, like a scared little girl's, as she stared out into the velvety blackness of the desert. 

"What are you saying, Maddie? What has Carlos said?" I probed. 

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's what he hasn't said. I need to go to bed. I'll see you in Nebraska, or wherever the hell we'll be tomorrow." 

Turning off the overhead light, I sat for a long time, just staring out into the vast starry expanse outside. In three years of living in New York City, I had barely even seen a star, and now, here they were, crowding in so bright and in such profusion that they sent shadows streaking across the vast, barren land. No, that was only the moon, hidden behind the other side of the bus. Some conversation I'd once had with Alex came filtering back through my head. 

What had he said about the deep field? Those dark patches of the night sky between the stars that, to our unaided eyes, looked totally black, lonely and empty, held untold secrets. Only the Hubbell telescope, outside the distorting atmosphere of earth, could see that empty blackness give way to thousands of galaxies, untold numbers of stars floating out on the very edge of the universe. But what about those dark spaces between _those_ unseen, infinitely distant stars? Was the universe itself curved round in a big circle, so that we would eventually see only faint echoes of our own galaxy, reflections of our own selves? Was there a limit to how far light could travel, and beyond those stars, even our most sophisticated technology gazed out only to nothingness? 

Damn, Alex would have known, Alex would have had some theory to explain it all, of course. The day Alex ran out of theories, the world would surely end. 

 

\----------------------------------

 

The tour, which had seemed endless and eternal while we were actually on it, was over before I had even settled into the fact that it was really happening, and I was actually quite excited to continue in Europe. The plan had been to take a week off in-between the US and Europe, but as we laughed and joked on the way to the airport, I felt as though we could just keep going forever. 

Unlike my bandmates, I wasn't going back to New York; I had agreed to meet Jeremy on the road somewhere in Japan, so I was getting on yet another plane headed in the opposite direction. After all, as I kept telling myself, it wasn't like I had a home to go back to in New York. With a heavy heart, I watched the three of them retreat down the boarding gate, waving jauntily, then dashed off to another country and another time zone. Jet set hobo, that's what I was becoming. 'Ah, well, worry about it when the tour is over,' I told myself as I settled down in my seat for a long deserved sleep. Besides, I'd always wanted to see Japan.

When I awoke, the plane was descending rapidly, coming in for the final approach to Tokyo. I must have been exhausted, if I had managed to sleep through an entire 12-hour flight. Clutching my rucksack, I wandered in a bleary daze through the airport, wondering why Jeremy had not bothered to meet me at the gate. I called the hotel, only to be informed that the band had already left for the venue of that night's gig, that they were expecting me to meet them there. Well, it would have been nice of someone to tell me, I thought resentfully as I clambered into a taxi. What the hell was I doing here, in this alien country, flying at breakneck speeds through a neon city that looked suspiciously like a giant, multi coloured, living video game? And why did that nasty little voice always have to turn up in the back of my head, telling me that I did not have anywhere else to go? 

My plane must have been late, as when I arrived at the theatre, the show was already in full swing. At least I was finally going to get a chance to see the fabled Rocket Pops in action this way. Although it was hard to believe from the giggling little boy I knew Jeremy to be, their live performances were rumoured to be quite incredible. Making my way through rows upon rows of Japanese teenagers fighting their hormonal urges to maintain composure, I slung my rucksack over my back and tried to head for the stage door, but about halfway through the crowd, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a blast of noise from the stage. The blissful sound off an ultra-distorted guitar skittered across my ears in an infectious stop and start rhythm. 

Up on centre stage, dangerously close to the edge of turbulent crowd, stood an incredibly beautiful boy. He slouched petulantly, his legs spread impossibly wide in faded Levi's, his hips angled slightly forward to support his guitar, his chin dipped coquettishly, candy apple red hair falling into smouldering eyes smeared harlot black with mascara. My body reacted instinctually, even before the shock of familiarity registered on my jet lagged brain. This lovely manchild, almost feminine in his beauty, whipping the crowd into such hormonal frenzy with his provocatively fluid posturing - this was _my_ Jeremy. 

With a familiar giggle, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and surveyed the crowd with soft doe's eyes, then launched back into the song with redoubled energy. But this was not the awkward yet adorably gangling boy I'd seen on the television. As he backed away from the microphone, weaving his shoulders in time to the music, I suddenly realised that he was mimicking me, imitating the way I moved onstage, mixed in with a few of Beth's cabaret stage moves; a boy imitating a girl mimicking a boy pretending to be a girl in a curious but compelling fusion of gender confusion. He was swinging his head in a fluid snake-like motion now, a move I recognised from numerous Charms clips. Damn him; he played me better than I did myself!

As he stepped back from the mic again, he held his guitar up with one hand, throwing the other into the air like a mock crucifixion as the noise raged around him. His chest was bare under a fake fur jacket I suspected might once have been mine, his skinny jeans sliding off his slender hips, his stomach a pale, white expanse revealing two sculptured lines curving down towards his groin... I shuddered with pleasure, remembering where they lead.

Dragging my eyes away, I turned around and pushed my way back to the stage door, producing the tag I'd been given. Observing him from the closer vantage of the wings, I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. Whatever he was doing, it was certainly effective; I found myself undeniably aroused by the double thrill of both the slightly narcissistic delight in the performance and the anticipation of what would come after. 

At the end of the last song, he ripped off his guitar and threw it down, sauntering offstage with unnerving confidence. At first, it was as if he didn't even see me, and he was about to stride straight past me, when suddenly, he must have caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, and whirled around. Without even bothering to speak, he caught me up in a sweaty embrace, bringing his mouth down on mine with all the ferocious desire promised by his stripper moves. Every ounce of annoyance drained out of my body as he kissed me for a seemingly endless time, crushing my body up against his, moving urgently and rhythmically, as if he wanted to take me then and there. If his lead guitarist hadn't called him off to do an encore, I believed he well might have. 

Impatient to get offstage, he kept throwing mischevious glances back in my direction, moving in a overtly sexual manner that sent all the little girls in the audience into squeals of adolescent lust. For a second, I was gripped with a pang of guilt, then I just slid into the same state, marvelling at his stage presence, smiling back at him slyly from under my fringe, twirling a strand of hair provocatively.

Groping each other furtively in the back of a cab, we kissed passionately on the way back to his hotel. Japan slid by outside in a blaze of neon lights, sending flickering highlights across Jeremy's red hair as we raced through the streets. But once back in our room, rather than flopping immediately down onto the bed as I had hoped, Jeremy disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, reappearing with a small kit bag. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he calmly sat down on the edge of the sofa and pulled out a little pouch of brownish powder and some vaguely medical looking implements, then proceeded to tie off and make the usual preparations for shooting up. 

"Jeremy!" I gasped, completely taken aback. "What the hell are you doing?" 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snapped back somewhat curtly, his fingers shaking slightly as he slid the needle under his skin. Flinging myself down beside him, I seized his arm, tracing the fresh red welts down the inside of his elbow. "Stop it!" he insisted, wrenching his arm back from me and pulling down the sleeve of his rib striped top. 

"Is that heroin?" I asked carefully, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

"It's a speedball," he replied defensively. 

"How long have you been doing this?" I demanded, trying to pick the plastic baggie off the sofa, but he was too quick for me. 

"I'm not an addict, so don't even start with me!" he protested. "I just do it every now and then. If you do it for a couple of days, then stop, you don't get addicted. I have it under control," he assured me, laying back on the couch and closing his eyes as a blissful expression overtook his face. Slowly, lazily, he opened his eyes again and smiled at me. "You want to try some?" he offered with an ecstatic grin. 

Completely taken aback, I stared at the powder he was holding out towards me. I should not have been tempted by something that dangerous, but I had to admit I was incredibly curious. I was no saint myself - over the years I'd put literally dozens of medicinal and street drugs into my system in the quest for the endless buzz, but I'd always drawn the line at heroin. "Doesn't it make you sick, though?" 

Jeremy shook his head lazily. "Not if it's cut with speed. Takes the edge off," he assured me, with the nonchalant air of someone who sounded like they knew what they were talking about. As I wavered, he moved closer, kissing the back of my neck, then he slowly started to prepare another dose. 

I watched as he repeated the process, dissolving the powder with a cigarette lighter, then carefully loading the needle. "Oh, what the hell. Just once won't hurt... As I always say, it's better to regret something you have done, than to regret something you haven't done." 

"That's the spirit," Jeremy told me, kissing me urgently, then wrapping the rubber tube tightly around my upper arm. "Oh, I can't wait to make love to you like this - I've never done it..." 

For a brief second, I felt a tiny pinprick of pain, then for an instant, I felt nothing. Afraid that it wasn't doing anything, I climbed to my feet. The room spun around like some crazy fairground ride, and suddenly I saw the floor floating up towards me, then the world faded into blackness. 

Slowly, the sensation of water over my face dragged me back to consciousness, as I realised the cold, hard sensation against my cheek was tile. Someone was slapping my face, calling my name. Slowly, painfully, due to the blinding fluorescent light, I opened my eyes to see wet red bangs hanging in my face. 

"Kate! Are you alright?" he asked desperately, his eyes boring into mine. 

"What happened?" I stuttered, pushing him off me, holding my hands up to shield my face from the onslaught of the cold water. "Where am I?" My head felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, my stomach was churning. "I feel like I'm going to be sick," I gasped, trying to get a hold on the side of the tub to pull myself upright. Jeremy watched helplessly as I lurched towards the toilet and emptied the contents of my stomach into it. "What the hell went wrong? What did you give me?" 

"I don't know," he protested, pacing back and forth. "I gave you the same amount I gave myself... but it must have been too much." 

Clutching my head, I crawled over to wipe my face on a towel. "You enjoy this... this feeling?" The dizziness and disorientation was fading, slowly being replaced by wonderful numbness. The bathroom was dissolving, the hotel was dissolving, all of Japan was dissolving, and Jeremy with it. 

Lying down on the bed beside him, I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness, wrapped in a blanket of cotton wool. He touched me, kissing me gently, but sex was the last thing on my mind. Hours slipped by in a deliciously anaesthetised languor, though I was hard pressed to remember anything we actually did. Rather, I found myself utterly caught up in watching the reflections of headlights slide up the wall and across the ceiling. I didn't feel drugged at all, I just felt beautifully numb, in fact startlingly normal. All these years, I'd been using drug experiences as a search for some universal truth or the answer to some unaskable question. The problem with heroin  - or maybe the point  - was that it made me so complacent and stupidly content that I forgot what the question was in the first place. And, indeed, no longer cared.

 

I woke up the next morning (afternoon? I couldn't tell anymore) with no real memory of the previous night at all. My stomach was churning, my joints were aching, and my vision was blurry at best. "Jeremy..." I sighed, nudging him gently. He groaned and rolled over, but did not wake. 

Crawling out of bed, I made my way to the bathroom and poured myself a glass of water, ignoring the pounding in my head, and doing my best not to look at the bedraggled looking creature staring back from the mirror. I didn't feel sick per se, but I felt like someone had ripped the blanket off me, leaving every nerve exposed and jangling. After I downed a handful of aspirins, I made my way back to the bedroom, and tried to find a window behind the thick curtains that covered half the walls until one tiny ray of light parted the gloom. Blinking against the brightness of the spring sun, I stared down at Tokyo, spread out below me like a map. 

"Awwww... Jesus Christ, Kate - turn off the fucking lights..." growled a voice from the bed. 

I turned to see Jeremy, holding his hand over his face to shield his eyes from the glare. "Sorry," I sighed, then closed the curtains behind me as I stepped out onto the balcony. After all the years of horror stories about heroin come-down and withdrawal, I was surprised at how bad I _didn't_ feel, not really as groggy as a bad brandy hangover when it came down to it. So, for several minutes, I stood out there, soaking in the sun and the view, then turned back into the room, just in time to catch Jeremy rapidly pulling a needle out of his arm. "Jeremy, what the hell are you doing?"

"You want some?" he offered guiltily, almost in consolation. 

"Hell no!" I shook my head fiercely, remembering the churning in my stomach the previous night. "I thought you said you only did it for a few days then stopped." 

He shrugged disarmingly and smiled his little boy smile at me. "Come here..." Reluctantly, I padded over to him, but he kissed me so tenderly that I found myself rolling over onto my back, letting his hands roam inside my clothes. 

My breathing grew shallow and fast as he touched me, remembering that lovely boychild on stage the previous night. Pushing my tongue into his mouth, I wrapped my legs around his waist, but after a few minutes, he grew less eager, then finally stopped, pulling away. "What?" I demanded, sitting up and staring at him hopefully. 

He shook his head desperately, flopping back onto his pillow. "I'm sorry... I can't. Not right now. It's not you, I swear..." 

"No! It's the fucking smack!" I snapped back, pushing him away and rolling off the bed, but he barely even heard me. Rolling over, he pulled the pillow over his head like a small boy and tried to ignore me, but the phone started ringing. "Are you going to answer that?"

Reaching a skinny arm out, he finally picked it up on about the tenth ring. "Yes... oh, hey. Yeah, yeah, we're up... We'll be there in an hour..." Casting a desperate glance around him, he scrambled for his clothes. "I totally forgot. We have some interview this afternoon..." Rolling my eyes, I threw myself back down in bed and flipped on the television. "What are you doing? Come on. Get dressed - we have to be there in an hour." he insisted, picking my dress of the floor and tossing it at me. 

"What? Why do I have to go to your interview? I don't even like going to interviews with my own band..." I whinged. 

"Oh, but you have no problem doing press for that Alex Jones," he replied with more than an edge of jealousy to his voice. 

I shot him a nasty glance as I grabbed my dress and headed for the bathroom. "Fine. I need a shower." 

Just over two hours later, the two of us strolled into the restaurant where we supposed to meet up with the interviewer and the rest of his band. Even completely straight, Jeremy had the attention span of a small child, but while drugged, he would get distracted by the smallest details, and wander off on the slightest provocation. It took all of my persuasive efforts to even get him to the restaurant in the first place, but once we got there, of course, everyone turned around and eyed me suspiciously. 

At least he was in a good mood, alert and talkative, chatting gaily with the interviewer while I picked at my sushi, trying to separate the tofu from the seafood rolls. His manager, Eric, if I caught the name correctly, kept watching him strangely, craning his neck every time Jeremy draped his arms around me, but at least Jeremy had the foresight to wear a long-sleeved jumper. As soon as someone suggested photographs, I immediately jumped up from the table, but Jeremy caught me and pulled me back down. 

"No, stay - come on - get a photo of us," he told the man with the camera, wrapping his arm around me possessively. 

"Jeremy, no!" I hissed, glowering at him. 

"Why not?" protested Jeremy, with that hurt puppy look. 

His band members were staring now, exchanging strange glances I didn't know how to interpret. "I don't like it," I told him quietly. "I don't like being treated like some sort of trophy girlfriend or ornament." 

He looked perplexed, completely missing the point. "There's no need for secrecy. It's not as if people don't know we're together." Rather than fighting him, I complied, letting him arrange me as just another fixture of his pop star life - the designer clothes, the vintage guitars, the champagne, the drugs, the leggy girlfriend. 

As they bundled off to another location for a group shot, Eric caught me by the arm. "You're Kate, right?" 

"It would appear so," I nodded, wrenching my arm back from him, but he had already caught sight of the band-aid I had plastered across the inside of my elbow. 

"So you're into that shit, too," he accused, shaking his head. 

"I am most definitely _not_ into that shit, as you so eloquently put it," I sneered. "I had to have an immunisation before I could travel to Asia." Why was I bothering to lie to this cretin? "It's Jeremy you should be worrying about." 

"I _am_ worried about Jeremy. Shit - is he still using? How much?" he pumped me for information. 

"Why don't you ask him?" I shrugged, deciding I was definitely starting to dislike him. 

"I'm asking you. You're his girlfriend."

"And you're his manager. You seem to be seeing more of him lately than I do," I shot back. 

"He denies everything, when I ask him," sighed Eric. "I can never quite catch him at it." 

The image of Jeremy surreptitiously pulling the needle from his arm and hiding the evidence sprang unbidden into my mind, but I certainly didn't trust this Eric person. "What makes you think he's doing it?" I asked, throwing the ball back into his court without actually answering his question. 

"They were all dabbling with smack when we signed them, but the label made it a prerequisite of the contract that they get off it! He was clean when he started this tour, but now you make me wonder..." 

"Since you're insinuating all sorts of terrible things, yeah, I've tried smack, once - a few days ago in Los Angeles, for your information," I lied, wondering why the hell I was covering for him. Well, if his contract itself was at stake, I would keep my mouth shut. "But I fucking hated it, and hate the lifestyle, and have no desire to make it part of my personal life, thank you very much."

Ignoring Eric's suspicious gaze, I walked back over to Jeremy and threw my arms around him, showering his face with kisses. Somewhat distractedly, Jeremy kissed me back, but he was growing tired and cranky. "Can we go back to the hotel soon," he whined impatiently, clutching me close. Snuggling up against him, I kept up the ruse of two lovebirds that couldn't stand to be apart. 

All the way back to the hotel, he fretted impatiently, shrugging me off when I tried to touch him. Rather than pushing me down onto the bed and pressing me into the mattress, he immediately started tearing though his luggage for his kit. 

"Jeremy, are you sure you have this under control," I ventured cautiously as he heated a foul looking substance over a cigarette lighter. 

"I do not have a problem!" he snapped, tying off his sinewy arm.

"Eric was saying that you were using when you were signed..." 

"I do not want you talking to Eric!" Jeremy spat with uncharacteristic spite, whirling around to glare at me. "Eric's a liar. He's our manager. It's his job to lie to people. Don't believe a word he fucking says!" 

I turned away, slightly hurt by this display of fury from the normally sweet and charming Jeremy. "Fine. Have it your way," I sighed. 

For several days, it was much the same story repeated in various hotel rooms around the islands of Japan. Onstage, Jeremy was electric, sex incarnate, razor sharp cheekbones and legs akimbo, but back in the hotel room, he would simply drug himself into oblivion. A lingering kiss, some furtive groping, and then he was off in his own world again. It just wasn't fair; here I was, the envy of every teenage girl within a thousand miles, and I was living in near celibacy with my own boyfriend. 

We were barely ever even alone, surrounded at all times by bandmates, roadies, members of the press, record company flunkies and other assorted hangers on. Even when we were finally alone, between his ever increasing drug use, and the sleepless, stressful life of touring, somehow we never got much beyond cuddling before he would pass out, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist. But, in the morning, all he would have to do was look at me, smile sweetly, then kiss the top of my head and tell me that he loved me, and I would feel vaguely guilty for even being angry at him in the first place. 

By the time I got to the airport, to board another plane headed back to Europe for the festival season, my head was in a whirl. Pulling my passport out of my bag and fumbling with my tickets, I stared at the artwork on the wall behind the check-in counter, a poster of a wood-block print of Mount Fuji. With a start, I realised that after years of wanting to visit the country, during the past week, I'd never managed to see the real thing.

Since Jeremy hadn't been able to find the time to accompany me to the airport, we had said our goodbyes at a taxi rank in front of a hotel. He hugged me again and again, his eyes brimming over as if he were on the brink of tears. "I'm sorry," he kept telling me. "This was supposed to be our time, and we haven't had a moment alone together... god, as soon as I get off this tour, I'll take you away for a month - wherever you want to go. Just you and me on an island somewhere..." 

I tried to smile and reassure him, but my heart wasn't in it. "Well, we'll see each other soon enough. We're both playing at Glastonbury, aren't we? And that other festival in Denmark... And Amsterdam. We'll see each other enough over the next few months..." I assured him with a kiss on the nose. 

Standing on the curb watching me leave, he looked so small and pathetic. Dark circles lined his baby blue eyes, and his fashionable clothes hung on his painfully thin frame; he looked like nothing so much as a small boy who desperately needed a bath and a hot meal. For a moment, I twitched with guilt - I shouldn't be leaving him like this; I should stay and take care of him - but I pushed the thoughts out of my mind as quickly as they entered. Jeremy was a big boy now - I was his girlfriend, not his mother. Scratching lazily, I stared at the fading red scar on my arm. So that was heroin? I was not impressed. After a few weeks of experimentation, Jeremy would undoubtedly grow bored and move onto the next thrill, the way he'd done with LSD, with Ecstasy, with cocaine, with everything else we'd tried.


	11. Glastonbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glastonbury! The highlight of the British musical year! And all four Charms turn up ready to party, festival stylee. As Jeremy sinks deeper into addiction, Kate finds herself drawn into new trouble with an old flame... and receives some disconcerting news about Alex.

After a week in Japan that was more strenuous than it was restful, it almost felt good to slide back into the hectic but familiar routine of touring with the Charms. Beth and Emma were bickering as usual, and Maddie was sulking over some argument she'd had with her husband over the amount of time we were spending on the road. In short, business as usual. Our entire lives were turning upside down with some crazy plan our management had come up with for us to play festivals several countries apart all in the same few weeks. Our schedule for the next month looked like a advertisement for some international airline. 

After a few experiences, I discovered that I actually enjoyed playing festivals. Rather than hours of boredom on buses and hotel rooms, followed by a brief burst of excitement, a festival was a much more relaxed, laid back affair. As one of the lesser known bands on most of the bills, we played fairly early in the day, leaving us free to wander around and catch the rest of the acts. Alternately schmoozing with the other bands, and staggering around with copious amounts of various European ales, we ended up enjoying ourselves more than we thought humanly possible. In direct contrast to the usual crazy backstage scene at our club gigs, at these vast European festivals, the real fun was out in the field with the punters, eating fried lumps of vegetable matter of dubious origin, ingesting brightly coloured pills of dubious origin and laughing hysterically at the stoned hippies trying to pitch tents in the mud. 

Of course, the high point of the tour was the legendary Glastonbury. With a violent assertion of collective will, we had successfully managed to wrangle the entire weekend off from our hectic tour schedule, to fully experience the entire event. In preparation, we had had four T-shirts specially made for the occasion with "Yes! I AM a celebrity" emblazoned across the front and our new "Charms" nicknames emblazoned across the back. I was "Drunken Groupie Magnet Charm," Emma was "Indie Cred Charm," Maddie was "Married, Godammit, Charm" and Beth was "Tabloid Gossip Column Charm." 

Stopping off at Stonehenge for the obligatory photo session, we were disappointed to find that it was fenced off to protect it from passing tourists. "But they've got to let us in!" whined Beth, clinging to the fence. "Don't they know we're famous?" 

"Sorry, you're not the first people trying to use that one," sighed a somewhat perplexed policeman, pointing at what appeared to be a scraggy bunch of hippies a few yards away. 

"Hey," I called out to them. "You create a diversion, and we'll hop the fence and make a run for it!" 

They were heading away from us, but the one closest to us turned around with a wave and a huge grin. "When we join together with the Welsh Bards to liberate Western Britain from the Saxons and return Stonehenge to the Druids, we'll sack these imperialist pigs and open the temple to..." he mock-intoned playfully, but as soon as he saw me, the expression on his face changed from friendly excitement to shock. "Kate." 

After a moment, I stared at the familiar mop of blond hair, the low-slung flares, the embroidered Indian shirt, then recognition hit me. "Tristram Thornaby-Gore..." 

Conflicting emotions wavered across his face as he stared at me, then he dragged his eyes away. "Oh, so you remember my name now," he finally managed to choke out. He seemed utterly at a loss whether to stay and talk to me, or turn around and run. 

Beth and Emma exchanged knowing looks, then wandered off in the opposite direction. "Look, Tristram..." I stuttered awkwardly, moving closer to him. "It was a long time ago, we were both very drunk, can we just... I don't know... let bygones be bygones and all that...?" He was still trying to make his mind up, from the wary expression on his face, so I tried to stress even harder how little of a threat I was to him. "Look - my boyfriend and I are planning on having a little party for our friends at our tourbus tomorrow night. Why don't you join us?" 

"Erm..." he contemplated. "I don't know..." 

"Tris! Come on, we're going!" called back one of his friends. 

"I'll... I'll think about it," he finally sighed, breaking into a trot to catch up with the rest of his group. 

As I made my way back to the Charms tour bus, Emma snuck up behind me and started to sing, "Kate and Tristram, sitting in a tree..." 

"Now you, shut the hell up!" I warned. 

We were singing rounds as our bus pulled into the backstage parking lot. "Hey! Let's take a look about; see who's here," I suggested, grabbing Beth by the arm. 

"No! We have to check in, find out about soundcheck, and all that logistical shit!" protested Maddie, always the voice of reason. 

With much groaning and protesting, we all followed our manager over to the mobile home that served as offices and nerve centre. She emerged a few minutes later with coloured bands for our wrists and program guides for us all. "OK, we're not on until Saturday afternoon, so until then you're free to enjoy the show. Here's fifty pounds of your PDs - have fun! Just remember to meet back at the tour bus at 4pm on Saturday." 

"Woo-Hoo!" yelled Emma. "Where's the beer tent?" 

"Beer tent?" huffed Beth. "I'm going celebrity spotting backstage! Do you know who's supposed to be here? Kate Moss and Johnny Depp are rumoured to be in the house!"

"Oh, go on!" countered Maddie, busy marking up her schedule with a highlighter. "Some of the best artists of our generation are playing over the next few days, and I have to carefully schedule my time if I'm going to catch them all. I can't afford to waste time getting pissed with you lot, or scouting for celebrities. I've got ten minutes to make Aphex Twin DJ-ing in the Drill & Bass tent..." she gushed before dashing off. 

Emma and Beth both stared at me, waiting for my opinion, but I was lost in my program. Suddenly, a shadow fell over the three of us. "Kate! You're here!" Looking up, I suddenly saw a familiar shock of red hair. 

"Jeremy..." I sighed, letting him sweep me up in his arms. There went all my plans for freedom during the weekend. Beth and Emma exchanged rolled eyes, then made their way off towards the fields together. 

"Hey, come on - William's here already. We're getting a party going in the football tent..." 

Football? My heart sank. As Maddie had put it, some of the best musical talent of our generation all around us, and he expected me to spend the weekend watching a pair of louts get pissed while screaming at football games on television? "Jeremy, there are some bands here I really wanted to see..." I protested. 

Jeremy's forehead wrinkled in annoyance. "I haven't seen you in weeks. We never get any time together..." 

"So why do you want to spend the little time we do have together off getting drunk with William Gallivant?" I snapped back with a little more spite than I had intended. 

Pouting mightily, Jeremy took my arm and pulled me off in the direction of the football tent without even bothering to reply. Obviously, in his world, women did not talk back to their men. When we entered the tent and I saw the crowd assembled around the screens, my heart sank. A crowd of lads, already intoxicated at 3pm, were yelling obscenities at players whose performance they disapproved of, while their obedient but bored girlfriends sat a few tables away, discussing the merits of various trendy London bistros. William and his brother Jim sat at the centre of it, laughing and joking with their vassals and insulting each other in the crudest ways possible.

"How's our team doing?" demanded Jeremy, sliding in beside him. 

"Bloody shite!" replied William, adding "Fooking morons! You need fooking glasses to find your own bleeding balls!" 

"Come on, Man City!" burped Jim, crumpling his plastic pint glass and throwing it at the television.

Glancing around desperately for an escape, I found only Sharon, sucking petulantly on a cigarette. Casting her a pleading glance, I was surprised to see her beckon me over. "God, I hate them when they get like this," she sighed. "Did you know that they are planning on touring together in the autumn?" 

"I did not know that," I replied. Somehow the idea filled me with a vague sense of incredible foreboding and horror. For half an hour, I managed to sit there, in sullen silence, perusing the program. Damn, in about ten minutes Phibroid Sound System would be on in the dance tent - both Emma and Maddie would be right up front for that. No, it just wasn't fair. Suddenly, I stood up and quietly announced "I have to go to the ladies room..." 

Sharon glanced around, cast a disapproving eye at her husband, then grinned widely. "Actually, I'll go with you." 

As soon as we were outside, I confessed, "I don't actually have to go at all, I just had to get the hell out of there." 

She grinned evilly, the first spark of independence I had ever seen. "Neither did I. Come on, then - where are we going?" 

For some reason, the idea of her tagging along with me was not particularly appealing, but the freedom was exhilarating. "Phibroid Sound System?" I suggested. "They're on in the dance tent... Pounding Pan-Celtic Techno-Dub-Metal. Apparently." 

"Never heard of them. I'm going to check out the stalls. I'll see you later..." 

It was still light outside, but inside the dance tent, the lights had been lowered to an intense gloom, punctuated only by bright white spotlights stabbing in time to the music. Kids were gathered all around, too shocked to dance, watching intently. Pushing my way to the front, I joined my bandmates up front, shaking their heads wildly in time to the breakneck beats.

"I've managed to lose my program already... What's next on the itinerary?" I shouted at Maddie as the set ended.

"Well, if we stay here, we face another hour of face-pummeling drill'n'bass, if we go to the main stage, it's Rawk Gawds from the Planet Metal, or if we go to the second stage, it's Indie Jangle Pop..." 

"Indie Jangle Pop, it is!" I exclaimed. "Lead the way!"

Stopping off at the beer tent, we procured several overflowing pints, then headed on our merry way, bumping into Beth on our way over, who had somehow managed to locate an entire bottle of vodka and some limes. The three of us were soon fairly drunk, hanging out just to the side of the second stage and yelling rude comments at the musicians as they walked to the stage. Finally, this was an acceptable compromise for all three of us - it had the best view of the stage, albeit from the side, good access to booze, and provided a perfect vantage point from which to gawk at our fellow artists. A couple of journalists wandered over, asked us a few questions, took some photos, and wandered off again. I was having an absolute blast, neither knowing nor caring where Jeremy was, as our little gaggle was growing with every act that got offstage and joined us for a few drinks. 

As intoxicated as I was, I barely noticed a quiet voice at my elbow. "Kate..." Guiltily, I turned around, terrified that it was Jeremy, but was relieved to discover Tristram cautiously staring at me with his watery blue eyes. "Do you mind if I join you?" 

"Oh, no... pull up a piece of the grass," I laughed, moving over to make room for him to sit.

He shook his head. Someone passed round a spliff and he took a deep hit before passing it on, then looked at me intently before diving straight in. "Look, Kate, it's been bothering me all day since I saw you again, and I hate to go onstage with something on my mind..." 

"Well, then, tell me what's bothering you," I suggested helpfully. "If it's about what happened before, well, it's nothing, Tristram, I don't know why you're so upset about it." 

"No, it wasn't nothing," he insisted. "It was wrong, and I'm sorry. I treated you terribly... I was just..." Running his fingers through his hair, he grasped for words. "I'm just ashamed of what I did." 

"Why?" I asked quizzically. "You didn't do anything wrong. We were both single, consenting adults. We were attracted to each other, and we acted on it." 

"But it's wrong!" he insisted righteously. "Sex is something serious to me! It's not a toy... not a..." Grasping for words, he pointed at the moniker emblazoned across the back of my T-shirt. "Drunken Groupie Magnet - is that really all you think of yourself?" 

"It's a joke!" I defended somewhat huffily. 

"It's not a joke," he pointed out. "That's exactly the point." 

"God, you fucking men!" I shot back, beginning to get really angry. "You just run around sowing your seeds like there's a leak in the gene pool, but god forbid a woman should actually do it to you, and then it's all 'boo-hoo, sex is something sacred, you broke my heart.'" 

"Don't flatter yourself. You hardly broke my heart. Sorry to burst your bubble, but someone already beat you to it!" he spat. 

I suddenly stopped, realising I'd gone too far and bit my tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that as harshly as it sounded." He didn't answer me, staring down resolutely at his Chelsea Boots, his petulant pout somehow making him look incredibly young. Suddenly feeling like a drunken boor, I reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. "Tristram... what's the matter?" 

He shook his head apologetically. "No, I'm being over sensitive myself. You're right. That's exactly what I'm trying to say. It's reprehensible behaviour in either sex. I'm not condemning you; I'm condemning myself." 

"Yes, but why does anyone have to be condemned for anything? I can make my own decisions. I fancied you, we had it off together. If I'd known you were going to go bleeding mad, I wouldn't have bothered, all right?" I unintentionally quoted. 

"Look at you, you're always trying to prove that you're one of the boys, that you can drink as much as the boys, take as many drugs as the boys, say as lewd and disgusting things as the boys can, screw around just like the boys do. Well, you're not a boy, Kate, and emulating the worst aspects of stereotypical masculinity is not going to make you one." 

I was practically speechless with anger. "Who the fuck died and made you the arbiter of my sexuality?" was all I managed to stutter out. 

For a long time, we just stared at each other in smouldering animosity, neither of us wanting to concede defeat by getting up and walking away. Tristram opened his mouth like he was about to throw something back at me, but we were mercifully cut off by a blast of noise from the stage. Some German digital hardcore band were starting up with bursts of distorted electronic noise. Suddenly, a tiny ball of energy came flying up the path and propelled herself into the space between us. "Rock _and_ ROLL!" Emma howled in delight, pulling me to my feet and jumping up and down excitedly in time with the music pumping from the stage.

Beth rolled her eyes, then lazily raised herself to an upright position and offered "Show us your tits!" in fine festival form. 

Emma nearly collapsed in laughter. "Louder! I don't think they heard you!" Both of them took another swig from the bottle of vodka, waited for a quiet moment in one of the songs and screamed out "SHOW US YOUR TITS!!!" at the top of their lungs. 

Upon hearing this, the singer walked over to the back of the stage, leered broadly, then proceeded to pull down his pants and moon us. "We said your tits, not your arse!" I yelled after him, then turned to find that Emma was no longer standing beside us. "Emma?" Looking around, then down, I saw she had fainted. 

Running around in a flurry, we looked for water, but, finding none, splashed a shot of vodka in her face. She blinked, licked her lips, then coughed. "Stoly? Blech! I thought I'd at least be worth Absolut!"

Laughing and giggling, the four of us practised mad double-time synchronised dance steps to the music. Unfortunately, I did not get to enjoy it for long, as our little exchange with their singer had not gone unnoticed. After a few minutes of hilarity, I was rudely interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded Jeremy angrily. "I've been looking for you all over the festival!" 

For a moment, I stared at him dumbly, searching my hazy alcoholic brain for some excuse. Not finding one, I decided to go on the counter attack. "I'm surprised you noticed I was gone - you and William were so intent on your football game." 

"You could have at least told me you were going! And where the hell is Sharon?" 

"I have no idea," I shrugged innocently. "I left her at some stall on the way to the dance tent..." 

"Come on - we've got to find her," he insisted, roughly grabbing me by the arm and pulling me away from my band. 

"Hey!" I protested. "I want to see the band!" 

"Where did you last see her?" 

"I don't remember!" I shook my head, trying to pound some memory out of my intoxicated brain. 

"She's not on the fooking bus," announced William, trotting in from the parking lot and falling into step behind us. His eyes were beady with an animal brutality as he turned to me. 

"Erm... I left her right near the dance tent. I went in, she stayed out. I can't believe she'd still be there..." 

The three of us charged on through the crowd, ignoring the occasional punter pointing us out or asking for an autograph. At this time of night, the dance tent was a madhouse, seething bodies writhing under unholy coloured lights, easily about ten degrees hotter inside than out. Hardcore jungle throbbed all around us as we dodged the whirling kids. William ploughed on blindly through the crowd until all of us caught sight of his objective. Off in one of the darker corners, she stood, swaying slightly to the beat, a rapturous expression glazed across her face. "Sharon!" growled William, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her roughly out of the tent. 

"Hey, I was dancing," she complained spacily, teetering slightly. 

"You're off your fooking face!" accused William angrily. "What the fuck did you take?" 

"I dunno," she shrugged vacuously. 

Seizing her handbag, he started to pull things out of it at random. Upon finding a packet of white powder, he broke it open, tasted it suspiciously, then lashed out at her. "This is mine, you fucking whore!" 

"No, it's not," she protested. "I bought it myself." 

"Don't talk back to me, cunt!" he snarled, pulling back his hand and making as if he was going to slap her. 

Without thinking what I was doing, I acted instinctively, leaping onto him to prevent him from hitting her. "Don't you fucking touch her!" I screeched, pushing him away from her.

Staggering back, more surprised than hurt, he flailed back at me, trying to slap me with the back of his hand. "Ain't no bint gonna tell me what I can and can't do..." 

With a sudden burst of strength, I found myself punching him on the jaw, knocking him backwards onto the grass. For a moment, he simply stared at me with a shocked expression, then clambered his way to his feet. "You fucking bitch... I'm gonna..." 

All around, people were gathering, egging us on, laughing and making catcalls. "Wassa matter, Willie? Should we find a smaller girl to beat the crap out of you?" his brother taunted.

Sharon was cowering back behind me, her eyes huge with fear, but I stood my ground. William stalked closer, eyeing me malevolently, until he was so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, then shook his head. "Naw, you're not even worth bothering with. Jeremy, you need to keep your bitch in line. Sharon, we're going. Now!"

Nervously tip toeing out from behind me, she shot me a pathetic look, then obediently followed her husband. The crowd that had gathered around parted slightly to let them through, then they were lost to my sight. Behind me, I heard Jeremy's breath exhale sharply. "What the hell did you do that for, Kate?" 

"So, what? I was supposed to just stand there and let him beat her up?" I inquired as we headed off in the opposite direction. 

Jeremy shook his head slowly. "They always fight. You shouldn't get involved. Jesus Christ... he'll never speak to me again, Kate!" 

"That... that... orang-utan was slapping his wife around, and you're worried about how you'll look in front of your little pals? Well, if he's not going to speak to you over that, that's one little pal you don't need!"

"I've seen her hit him as well," he defended. "It doesn't matter - you've only made him angrier with your little John Wayne act there. I'd hate to see what he does when they get back to the bus." 

"The sick thing is, you're probably right," I sighed. It was all too much for me, the drunkenness, the emotional intensity of the heated exchange, combining with the accumulated exhaustion of the past few months - I felt like I was going to break down and start crying at any moment. 

"Come on," he insisted, draping his arm around my shoulder, more to hold himself up than to comfort me. 

"Where are we going?"

He started to dig through his pockets, searching desperately for something. "Where the fuck is my gear?" he swore, shaking his head. 

"Is that all you ever think about?"

"I need it," he insisted, his red rimmed eyes boring into mine. he was shaking slightly, his skin clammy to the touch. "Oh, shit... it's back on the bus." 

Staggering slightly, he shuffled off in the direction of backstage. For a moment I stared after him, then shook my head, heading back to the grassy area where we'd left the rest of my band. Relieved to finally be back among friends, I sank down to the grass next to Beth, but she was deep in conversation with her beloved Gary Goode. Glancing around, I noted that everyone was still there, in more advanced states of intoxication, with the notable exception of Emma. 

Signalling wildly, Maddie tried to get my attention, so I scooted over to her side. "Can you believe it? He actually showed up!" she hissed, gesturing to Beth and her date. 

"Where's his wife?" I snorted.

"That's the bizarre part! She's around here somewhere. Have you _met_ her?" she asked urgently, then cringed. "Oh, speak of the devil..." Following her gaze, I saw a dazzlingly beautiful woman in her late 30s, casting her eyes around as if surveying her empire. She was tall and glamorous, with long dark hair and dancing eyes - well, Gary definitely had his type, I observed, glancing back at Beth, staring angrily at her rival. 

"The nerve of her, to come back after..." Beth hissed, gesturing me over to her side.

"After what?" I probed.

Beth hesitated, then pulled me out of earshot of Gary. "Everything Gary says is true. They totally do have an open marriage. Yvonne's not faithful to him. Not for one second! I saw openly kissing this guy - right in front of Gary!" 

I opened my mouth to say something to the effect of 'it was probably for Gary's express benefit,' then thought better of it. After a few moments, Jeremy came loping back from the parking lot, a little bit of colour in his wan cheeks. When she saw Jeremy, Yvonne smiled, and started to make her way over to him. Lighting a cigarette off Jeremy's, she smiled at him coyly and whispered something into his ear. "Oh my god..." gasped Maddie, joining our huddle. "Aren't you going to go and cut in?"

For a second, some instinctual beast of jealousy growled deep in my belly, but Jeremy dug in his pocket, surreptitiously pulled out a packet of white powder and flashed it at her. She nodded, glanced around, then threaded her arm through his and the two of them disappeared in the direction of the stage. "No. For some reason, I don't think sex has anything to do with it," I laughed, somewhat perplexed by my own relief. Suddenly remembering something, I looked around. "Where's Emma?"

"Oh my god, isn't tonight just the weirdest night? The planets must be in some really strange alignment or something. You totally missed it!" she confided, her eyes huge. "She was snogging that guy from the band who mooned us, and then they just... disappeared..."

I burst out laughing, a strange, shrill cackle with more than an edge of hysteria. "Even Emma? Jesus Christ..." Distracted by a rustle beside me, I turned to see Gary glance around suspiciously, then stand up, helping Beth to her feet. He whispered something to her and she giggled, staring up at him with an impish grin. Turning around, he stared for a moment in the direction that his wife had disappeared with Jeremy, then took Beth by the hand and lead her in the opposite direction. "This is getting sick," I observed. 

Before she could answer, a shadow fell over us, and I looked up to see Eric glowering down at us. "Where is he, Kate?" 

"Where is who?" I shrugged.

"Jeremy."

"I don't have the faintest clue. Didn't you find him at the bus?" 

"He's gone." He paused, glaring at me. "He's on fucking smack again, isn't he? Jesus Christ... if he's not on that stage tomorrow... You have to help me look for him..." 

Clutching me by the arm, Maddie threw me a panicked expression. "Please, just don't leave me by myself." 

"Fuck off. Find him yourself. He went that way..." I told Eric, gesturing in the direction Jeremy and Yvonne had retreated to. 

"Oh, thank god," sighed Maddie as Eric dashed off again. "Don't leave me alone with... him." 

"Why, who is it you fancy?" I teased, trying to recapture the light hearted play of our earlier mood. 

"I'm married!" she insisted half-heartedly, as if trying to convince herself as much as me. 

"So's Gary," I replied with a raised eyebrow. 

"Shut up. Just shut up." She seemed so distracted by someone or something at the perimeter of our little clique that I turned around. Standing next to Tristram was some movie actor, obviously the focus of her attention, as she grabbed my arm and yanked roughly as soon as I pointed him out. 

"Who is that? He looks really familiar..." 

"No, no, no - don't look now. He keeps glancing over." 

"Well, that might be because you're staring at him," I teased, catching his attention and waving at him broadly.

He prodded Tristram, then gestured to us. Tristram made a face and shrugged, and the two of them ambled over. "Hello," the new man announced, and introduced himself, but with his thick Scots accent, it sounded more like a sneeze or a hiccough than a name. 

"Bless you," I replied blithely, to annoy Maddie. 

"Ignore Kate," sneered the audibly plastered Tristram. "She's bad with names." 

Clutching my hand tightly, Maddie shot me a glare as if to say 'one word and I will murder you' then smiled sweetly at Hiccough Boy. "Actually," he suggested. "Several of us were just talking about driving over to Glastonbury Abbey. Fancy coming?" 

I glanced around nervously. "I should really try to find Jeremy..." I started, but Maddie cut me off. 

"We'd love to!" I shot her a plaintive glance, but she squeezed my hand in a vice like grip and hissed. "Don't you dare leave me alone!"

"You want to go, you don't want to go," I teased. "You want to talk to him, you don't want to talk to him. Better make up your mind if you want me to leave you alone with him or not!"

"Come on, I mean..." It was so odd seeing Maddie's face twisted into a goony girly grin. "It's Ewan MacGlashan, after all... oh my god, I've seen all his films. I _love_ him."

Against my better judgement, I found myself climbing to my feet and following a gaggle of drunken revellers back towards the parking lot. A strange sense of foreboding filled me as we left the relative safety of the festival. As we climbed into the van, I tried to stay as far as possible from Tristram, pausing to let a gaggle of drunken Scotsmen climb into the van ahead of me, but somehow he still ended up sitting next to me on the floor, studying me accusingly with those huge muppet eyes.

"What?" I finally asked as we pulled out of the parking lot onto the dark claustrophobic lanes of the Somerset countryside.

He shrugged, holding out two glistening gelatine capsules in the palm off his hand. "Want some?"

Without stopping to think, I swallowed one, then asked. "What the hell is it?"

"Special K."

"No it's not," I laughed. "I've had that in New York, and it looks nothing like this. You got ripped off."

He shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"You and Jeremy, the both of you," I sighed. "Always coming back with the wrong drugs."

"Jeremy and I have too much in common, it seems." 

I glared at him. "I don't particularly want to talk about Jeremy."

"You brought him up," shrugged Tristram. "I have no interest in your overly complicated love, pardon me, sex life."

"Back on this argument, are we? Kate and her evil sexual promiscuity. Don't you ever give up?" I sparred, more out of something to do than actual annoyance. 

"So, what I want to know is, where does Alex Jones fit into the equation?" interrupted our movie star companion from the front seat.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. Alex doesn't fit into the equation at all."

"Har-har! That's not what Mimi Mei said when they broke up," hooted Hiccough Boy, bending over the back of his seat to join in our gossip session.

That stopped me in my tracks. "What?" I asked softly, blinking with shock.

"Yeah," he continued, oblivious. "When the 3AM Girls asked her why she left him for that fashion designer - what's his name? Well, she said it was because of his long-running affair with you."

"Alex and Mimi broke up?" I repeated dumbly, not believing what I was hearing.

"Yeah, it was in all the papers. Quite a scandal. Where the hell have you been?"

"On tour of America," I stuttered.

"Oooh," Ewan crowed triumphantly. "You missed it, then. Supposedly Alex found out that she was sleeping with her favourite designer, so he dumped her. She defended herself in the press by saying that she had witnesses he had shagged you in LA... Rumours of a party where you two were all over each other...?"

When I did not counter these accusations Tristram turned around, observing me carefully. "You really didn't know?" I shook my head. Bending down, he peered into my eyes, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine... I'm just a bit shaken... They said...? But we didn't do anything! I swear to god, we came to our senses, we didn't do it" I protested, shaking his arm off me. Confused and disoriented, I tried not to burst out into tears. Whatever it was he had given me, it was kicking in awfully fast. Then again, I hadn't had much of anything except beer and vodka in my stomach all day.

Ewan gulped awkwardly and turned back to his other friends. Where was Maddie? From the other side of the van, she stared contentedly at her idol, while batting off the playful pick-up attempts of his drunken friends; obviously she hadn't heard a word of the exchange. "Kate... you don't look fine..." Turning back to him, I realised Tristram was shaking me gently.

"I don't feel well. I think I'm getting a bit carsick," I lied.

"We're nearly there," he assured me. True to his words, the van lurched then pulled to a stop. "Here, take my hand," he offered with genuine concern, climbing out of the van and helping me down. Trying to catch my breath, I wandered away from Maddie and the gang of drunken Scotsmen, but Tristram followed me. "Don't wander too far. It's very easy to get lost around here."

"I just need some air. I need to clear my head," I insisted, plunging off into the darkness of the trees. Shadows loomed across my path, jagged and disjointed in the moon light. My thoughts were jumbled, confused, stubbornly refusing to conform to any rhyme or reason. Alex and Mimi had broken up... why hadn't he told me? Why hadn't he tried to contact me? Perhaps he had... After all, it had been ages since I checked my e-mail. Why did everyone seem to think I had something to do with it? What had he told Mimi? What had she told the press?

Faster and faster I walked, trying to keep pace with my racing mind, but Tristram managed to dog my every movement. "Leave me alone!" I hissed, breaking into a trot down a hedgerow.

"No!" he insisted, loping after me. "You're upset, you're tripping your face off, you're wandering around strange countryside in the dark. For some reason, I don't think you should be alone right now."

I whirled around to face him. "Oh, what, so you, brave and gallant knight, Sir Tristram can protect me from my inner demons?"

"Stop it. Just stop it," he sighed, taking my hand and pressing it gently to his lips.

"Why? Do you only find women attractive when they're weak and helpless and scared, and in need of your protection?"

Dropping my hand, he turned away, obviously stung by my callous remarks. "All I'm trying to do is console a friend who's obviously upset. Just forget it, then."

My lower lip quivered as I stared after him, watching him walk away from me down the green lane, his mop of blond hair almost luminous in the moonlight. "Tristram, I'm sorry," I whispered quietly.

He stopped, stared up at the huge moon as if counting to ten, then turned around. "Come on, then."

For a few minutes we walked in silence, then suddenly the hedgerow broke to reveal a steep hill, broken by a long curving incline winding its way around the Tor. In the moonlight, the stately tower of the ruined abbey seemed to take on an otherworldly glow, beckoning us from afar. Without a word, the two of us simultaneously broke into a run, clearing the flat ground in a few minutes and heading up the steep green slope, ignoring the winding road to clamber up the side. Tristram was obviously in better shape than I was, scurrying up the hillside like one of the sheep complacently grazing around us, pausing only to offer me a helping hand up. 

The speedy buzz of the acid was in full effect now, and I climbed without thinking of the effort, concentrating only on reaching the top. My hands were green from the grass, my knees skinned, but I couldn't stop, following Tristram blindly. We climbed forever, higher and higher, pausing only to cross the wide open patches where the path intersected our ascent.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we broke out onto a wide open hilltop broken by a ruined tower. Tristram trotted on, but I threw myself onto the grass, staring up at the moon, hanging so near to us it almost seemed like I could reach out and touch it. "Please, give us a minute to catch my breath," I panted.

Turning back, Tristram flopped down next to me on the grass, laughing and dropping leaves of grass on my face. "Well, never mind. Sit up and look at the view."

Raising myself up on my elbows, I stared down at the countryside, bathed in the eirie otherworldly of the full moon. "My god, it's lovely up here..." I gasped. "In the moon light, it's like another world. Almost makes you believe this could have been Avalon..."

"Of course it was!" he asserted, amazed that I could possibly think anything else. "Don't you believe in magic... or are you far too cynical and scientific for all that 'nonsense'?"

"I don't know," I replied slowly. "I'm not sure whether I believe in the supernatural or not. I don't know if I believe in cold fusion or not, either, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to build a nuclear reactor in my kitchen." He laughed, picking white blossoms out of the grass and dropping them onto my face. "But even I have to admit there's something up here. Ley lines, perhaps, or whatever they're called. Feng Shui... how do you say it?"

Tristram brightened. "You can feel it, too?"

"Then again, perhaps it's just the acid kicking in," I laughed.

"Well, that, too," he conceded. "But sometimes, doesn't it just feel like... the hallucinations, well, for a lack of a better word, cause it's not really the hallucinations that are the best part, are they? It's just like pretty wallpaper to look at while the real fireworks are the insights - intellectual and spiritual. Yeah, the swirley paisley things are kinda nice, but it's everything else... the way, just for one moment, all the cobwebs are cleared away and you can see clearly, without any of the baggage of the mundane, physical world - and reality just shimmers like this giant crossword puzzle, all the pieces fitting together perfectly... it's all written out for you to read, only in some arcane language you can't comprehend until... why are you staring at me like that?"

I sat up, my eyes welling up with tears. "I've just had this conversation - recently - with someone who just couldn't understand it." 

"With whom, if you don't mind my asking?" he probed.

I sighed, turning away. "Jeremy." I'd been trying very hard not to think about him. "Sometimes I don't even know what the hell I am doing with that man," I finally confessed.

"Do you love him?"

"No." Jesus, I didn't even have to think about that. "See, in this state, I can see that clearly. It's too complicated otherwise." I rubbed my hands across my eyes, but my vision wasn't clearing. "There's writing everywhere, Arabic, Sanscrit, Hebrew, Runes, spiralling through the grass at my feet, winding their way through the hedgerows spread out below us," I observed. "When I was a child, I believed that God, whoever he or she was, spoke in Latin. So I went to school and I learnt Latin, and that wasn't it. It was just hundreds of boring old wars and Caesars. So then I thought it might be Runes... so I got a book, and learnt Runes, and that was boring old wars and Vikings, so that wasn't it, either..."

Tristram giggled, toying with the embroidery on the edge of his shirt. "I know exactly what you mean. I learned Latin, and then Welsh, and medieval Cornish, then Sanskrit... And I had to go all the way to India to learn Sanskrit."

"You can read Sanskrit. Why does that not surprise me in the slightest? At this moment, I don't know whether to laugh at you or hug you."

"I think I'd prefer it if you just hugged me," he laughed, bending down to wrap his arms around my neck. Encircling me with his arms, he clutched me close, kissing the top of my head. His body was so warm, his heart pounding so close to my head that I felt myself instinctively turning towards him, nuzzling my nose against the soft hollow at the base of his neck. For a moment, we just lay there, side by side, arms tangled together, hearts pounding, then my mouth found his and we started to kiss. Tentatively at first, I nibbled at his lips, then his mouth gave way and his tongue spilled into mine.

Suddenly, he pulled away. "Kate, stop. This isn't right..."

I shook my head. "What does it matter? My life is falling apart around me. The boyfriend I'm not even in love with is a fucking heroin addict, my best friend is losing herself in an affair with a married man, I've been on tour for so long, I don't even have a home to crawl home to..." The hysteria I had felt building all day was rising to the surface, threatening to drown me. "Oh god, Tristram, it doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or right - just hold me, please..."

He squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe, burying his face in my hair. "Why do you always have to smell so good..." he muttered, moving lower, brushing his nose against my ear. I shivered at the tickle that ran down my spine, pressing myself against his body. "Stop it!" he insisted.

"Stop what?" I breathed into his ear, rhythmically rubbing myself against his legs.

"Stop... wriggling..." he sighed, sliding his hand down the small of my back to steady me, but unintentionally slipping lower until his palm cupped my arse.

"What are you doing?" I asked mischeviously, nibbling impatiently at his shoulder blades. It had been so long since I'd had sex it felt like my body was starving for the feel of skin against my flesh.

"I don't know... but I don't want to stop..." He was on top of me, his legs pushing between mine, his hands under the skirt of my dress. Without thinking, I wrapped my legs around his waist, completely acquiescent, surrendering myself. Before he could protest, I had pushed his trousers off his hips. My flimsy sundress offered little resistance, but I heard the rip of tearing lace as his fingers pushed inside my knickers. I felt a sudden pressure, and he was inside me, moving slowly but urgently back and forth. Every inch of my skin felt alive, heightened by the drug. Wherever he touched me, his fingers sent tiny pinpricks through my flesh, tingling down through me, into the very earth, it seemed. I felt myself sinking down, no longer myself. My flesh was simply part of the earth, acting out some ritual much older than Tristram and I, much older than humanity itself. His eyes were slits, huge black pools lined with tiny rings of deep blue, reflecting back the light of the stars, the moon.

I wasn't even thinking of him... he was Uranus, the Greek sky god, making love to Gaia, the earth, to bring forth the Titans. "Well, that didn't end very well, did it?" I heard myself mutter. My voice brought me back to my own body, back to the rushing sensations of pleasure coursing their way between my legs. Due to the months of yearning celibacy since the last time Jeremy and I had sex, I was aching with longing, practically exploding with penned up tension. Hooking his arms up under my knees, he penetrated deeper and deeper with every stroke. The pressure was so exquisite, I didn't even stop to think about prolonging it, grinding my pubic bone against him until I felt the familiar ripple of orgasm.

"Why...? How... did... what... end..?" he grunted, then latched his mouth onto mine, sucking hungrily as he forced himself deeper and deeper. With a sharp exhale, he pushed himself so far inside me I felt like I was going to split open and stayed there for a few moments, panting for breath. It was over so quickly I barely realised it had happened until he stopped, brushing my hair out of my face and kissing my eyelids. "Oh my god... I'm sorry," he gasped, horror slowly clouding the glow of orgasm. 

"Why are you sorry?" I queried, running my hands up his back and pressing him close, but he pulled away.

"Why does this always happen, between us..?" Rolling off me, he panicked, trying to pull my dress back down to cover my nakedness. "Like you said, it starts out so well, and then it ends so badly..."

"We had sex, how is that bad?" I observed as rationally as I could, completely failing to understand his distress. "It's not evil, Tris. There's nothing wrong with it."

"I didn't say it was evil," he insisted. "But it is wrong." Pulling his face back towards me, I kissed him tenderly. For a few seconds, he responded, then I could feel him vacillate and finally pull away. "No, don't. It's not right! This place, it's so... for lack of a better word, it's sacred, and what we just did profaned it."

I shook my head. "Not at all. Didn't you feel it? This place, it _is_ sacred. It's the summer solstice tonight, a full moon to boot. It's a fertility ritual that's been acted out in this place centuries before there was a Christian settlement here..." I was talking utter gobshite, really. I just didn't want to hear any more from him tonight about the evils of sex and the role of women, specifically me. Hell, with that full, low moon bathing everything in a wild silvery light, I was almost ready to believe it myself.

His eyes sparkled as he lay back against the grass, studying me carefully. "I thought you didn't believe in those sorts of things."

"I believe in history. And I believe there are some things, symbols, rituals, that have more power in the human psyche than either science or Christianity can explain away."

"Is that all it means, then? 'Some ritual or symbol that neither science nor Christianity can explain?' Do you believe in anything simply because you believe it? Do you always have to be such a sceptic about everything? Can't you just accept that some things have no answer and no explanation, but you believe them anyway?"

"No!" I hissed. "I can't accept that. A faith that cannot be questioned is not a very strong faith to start with. What's the difference between you and the fundamentalist Christians you claim to be so much better than, then? You've simply switched one set of unbending moral dogma for another, haven't you?"

"Yes, but why do you have to go on and re-invent the wheel every time? Some things exist whether you can explain them away scientifically or not."

"Like what?" I demanded.

"Like love," he suggested, so quietly I could barely hear him.

"Oh, that fucking nonsense," I snorted.

"That fucking nonsense," he parroted. "Of course you don't believe in it. Why did I expect anything else?"

"No, I believe," I spat. "I believe there's something very powerful called lust..."

"Well, obviously you believe in that," he interrupted snidely. "But that isn't love."

"And I believe in that deep, companionate lasting affection between close friends - but I don't see anything else. I don't believe that that state of "in love" that people love to wax philosophical over is anything other than the first flush of hormonal attraction."

"So why do you grow so pale every time someone mentions the name Alex Jones?" he countered smugly.

I turned away, biting my lip bitterly. For the few minutes that his arms had encircled me and his flesh had been pressed against mine, I had managed to forget. "That's not fair, Tristram." 

"I'm sorry," he immediately apologised, realising he'd gone too far. Reaching out, he gently touched my shoulder, but I shrugged it off. In comparison to the huge, uncontrollable emotions that welled up inside me at even the thought of Alex, what had just happened with Tristram made me feel cheap and used and dirty.

"We should find the others..." I suggested, climbing awkwardly to my feet. Over the rise, I could hear voices making their way up the causeway. "Maddie..." I called out.

"Tris, Kate, where did you get to?" called one of the drunk Scotsmen. "Oh, there you are."

Tristram scrambled to his feet, rapidly seizing my ripped panties off the ground, wadding them into a ball and thrusting them into his pocket. "We went straight up the side," he stuttered by way of explanation. "I mean, we... we..." He looked back and forth between the Scotsman and me, then shook his head and wandered away.

"Maddie..." I whimpered, as she appeared over the rise, supported by the movie star. His arm was around her waist, her face was turned upwards towards him, whispering something into his ear. He laughed softly and bent over her, sweeping her off her feet and swinging her around so she could see the countryside.

When she saw me, they both stopped guiltily, and he deposited her on back safely on the ground. "Kate, erm... hi," she giggled, then took a swig from a bottle of some noxious looking alcohol. "You, erm... you didn't see..." Running over to me, she seized my arm and desperately hissed. "Please, just don't tell Carlos. Please! I swear to god..."

"It's OK," I assured her.

"Madeleine..." called her boy. She giggled, took another swig and stumbled back over to him.

With all these people swarming over it, our enchanted hilltop had lost its magic. Drunken, bumbling strangers were trampling like barbarians over our sacred ground. Even the ruined abbey looked like just another hulk of stone, looming menacingly over us. A wind was picking up, sending a shiver across my skin. Disoriented and confused, I stumbled off after Tristram, breaking into a trot until I caught up with him. 

"Let's go back, please..." I blurted out, running up to him and catching him around the waist.

"We can't. Don't have the keys to the van."

"It can't be far to walk. It didn't take us that long to get here," I pleaded.

He stared at me carefully as trying to measure my intentions. "It's miles," he warned me.

"I don't care."

"Well, at least let me go back and tell my friends."

It was over an hour later when the two of us finally stumbled out of the farmland into the parking lot. My legs were aching, but my heart was lighter, borne up by a long, rambling conversation as we strolled through fields and over sties. Tristram seemed at ease again, eventually threading his fingers through mine as we walked through the last patch of woods. Still holding hands, we stood together, surrounded by the hulking behemoths of sleeping tourbuses.

"Come back with me..." he suggested quietly, his eyes searching mine.

"You know I can't..." I sighed.

"But we're leaving early tomorrow morning."

"You're not even staying to see our set?"

"Well... I can try to catch a few songs." He shuffled his feet, nervously looking around the deserted parking lot, then wrapped his arms around my waist to sneak a lingering kiss. "When will I see you again?"

"I don't know. We seem to be on tour forever," I sighed, planting tiny kisses on his eyelids.

"It's festival season... we have to be playing some of the same ones," he pointed out hopefully.

I nodded and kissed him again, then slowly loosed my grip around his slender waist and backed away. With an indescribably bittersweet expression on his face, he watched me for a few minutes, then shook his head and made his way back towards his tourbus.


	12. And When She Lets Me Slip Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite technical failures of every kind, The Charms somehow make it through their first Glastonbury appearance. And as Jeremy sinks further into heroin addiction, Kate slips further into an affair with Tristram - though deep in her heart, she knows he's not the person she really wants.

Padding my way back to my bunk, I noted suspiciously that Maddie's bed had not even been rumpled. Pushing those thoughts out of my mind, I retreated to the toilet to attempt to clean myself up, then returned to my bunk, only to find it already occupied.

"Shit, Jeremy, what the hell are you doing here?" I hissed, pulling back the covers to reveal familiar red hair splayed out over my pillow. He mumbled and pulled the sheet back over his head, but did not wake, so I shoved him roughly. "Come on! Move over."

"Where have you been?" he groaned, shielding his eyes.

"Maddie and I went to see the old Abbey. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hiding from Eric..." he mumbled, rolling over to allow me room to lie down. "He seems to think I'm addicted again."

All the events of the afternoon that I had been trying to forget came rushing back. "Shit, well, you are, Jeremy!" I snarled, flopping my head back on the pillow, wishing the tiny parameciums would stop twisting their way across the ceiling.

"Oh, and you're completely straight right now," he accused gruffly. I bit my tongue. "Who were you with?"

"None of your business."

"I'm your boyfriend, of course it's my business!"

"Maddie, some friends of hers - an actor whose name I forget, something Scottish, I dunno, and his buddies - oh, and old friend of mine... he was the one who asked me to go."

"Does this old friend have a name?" Jeremy growled.

"Tristram. Tristram Thornaby-Gore."

That seemed to calm him down, as he rolled over, wrapping his arms around my waist and slipping back into unconsciousness. So long as it wasn't Alex, he seemed to be relieved. I wondered if he'd read the same tabloids as Tristram's friends. 

Lying back, I stared off into darkness, but did not sleep. The massive friendly rush of the acid has long since worn off, but I was still too on edge to even think about slipping into unconsciousness. My thoughts whirled around my head like caged animals stalking around their enclosures, resentment and frustration with Jeremy, a tiny flicker of hope ignited by Alex rapidly strangled by insecurity and fear, and something I couldn't even begin to name when Tristram's earnest blue eyes popped unbidden into my head.

 

At some point, I must finally have drifted off, as I was woken by raised voices and angry words. "You can't just come barging onto our bus like this!" protested Emma indignantly.

"Where is he? He's not anywhere else, he has to be here!" rang out Eric's voice impatiently. "I'll rip apart every bunk if I have to until I find him."

I heard the scrape of metal against metal as he pulled back more curtains, and then Amy's voice. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Jeremy, wake up," I hissed, shaking him gently, but he was lost in that deep impenetrable narcotic daze. Pushing the curtain back, I climbed out of the bunk. "Eric, he's in here..." I finally confessed.

"So why the hell didn't you tell me that last night?" he accused, his eyes narrow.

"I didn't know he was here until I came back myself," I explained pathetically.

"Jeremy, wake the fuck up! MTV Europe is backstage at this very moment, waiting for an interview."

"Leemee alone..." came a thin whine from the bunk. 

Everyone was out of their beds now, gathered around staring at Eric as he seized Jeremy by the arm and yanked him roughly. "Oh, Jesus Christ..." he gasped as he saw Jeremy's bare arms, lined with long red scars. There was a time when he'd been so careful, but now he didn't even bother to try and hide them any more.

"No, wait, stop," wailed Jeremy, rolling himself into a foetal position. I had never seen him this bad before. The previous night, he had been at least animated by the drug, but in the harsh glare of morning, he looked more like a skeleton. "I need to sleep... I need smack..."

Padding over, I gently took his hand in mine and tried to coax him out of my bed. "Jeremy, please... Eric, don't!" I suddenly snapped as Eric tried to manhandle him to his feet. "Eric, he needs help, can't you see?"

"You're damn right he needs help! But if he doesn't get his ass to that MTV interview, he can kiss his career goodbye!"

"Where are my works?" lamented Jeremy, his arm fast around Eric's neck for support. "Jesus Christ, where'd my stash go?"

"We'll get you all the fucking heroin in the world if you just put one foot in front of the other and walk yourself over to the MTV booth at the main stage," Eric assured him.

"I'll go with you," I offered, but Eric blocked my progress.

"Don't you even dare. You've done enough for one day!" he snarled.

"Oh, like this is my fault?"

"If you'd told me yesterday... hell, you should have told me months ago. Shit, I don't even want to talk about this right now... where does he keep his smack?"

"Inside the lining of his jacket," I confessed. How did I even know this? Eric dug until he found it, then handed it to Jeremy, who proceeded to stumble over to the table and sit down. "What are you giving him more for? He's obviously sick! He needs to go to a hospital. Hell, he needs to go to a rehab..."

"We'll give him whatever he needs to get through this damn interview, and the fucking gig, and then we'll worry about it."

I stared at him in disbelief until Emma shrieked. "What the fuck are you doing, Jeremy? You can't just shoot up out here!"

Jeremy gazed up at her in total lack of comprehension, his once lovely eyes dead and glassy pits in his skull. Even completely strung out of his mind, you could see the ruins of his beauty. In fact, his illness seemed to exaggerate his long, thin face and his pointed chin, his cheekbones razorlike under the greasy clumps of his hair. After a few minutes, the colour started to return to his face, and his eyelids drooped.

"Come on, Jeremy. Shit, we don't even have time to get you changed. You're fine. Let's go." The leather jeans at least looked clean, even if they did smell a bit strange up close. His T-shirt was filthy, but with his jacket fastened over it, he could still pass for a pop star.

"Kate, are you coming?" he asked blankly, smiling placidly.

"Kate's got to be with her own band today," Eric told him firmly, leading him away from me towards the door, pausing to shoot back a cautionary glance in my direction. Jeremy staggered slightly but did not protest, pausing only to smile half heartedly at Beth as he passed her on the way out.

She stared after him for a few seconds, then climbed up the steps to the bus and threw her bag down on the table next to me. "What the hell's up with Jeremy? He doesn't look too good."

"Oh my god, Beth, I don't know what to do any more..." I whimpered, afraid to even speak, because if I started crying, I was never going to stop.

I wandered through the day in a daze, partly from ill after effects of the chemical cocktail I'd imbibed myself, and partly just emotional numbness, half still in shock, half in denial. I'd decided to spend the day completely straight, but as soon as I saw someone pouring out drinks, my resolve wavered and I found myself accepting some coconut rum confection. By the time I reached the stage for our own performance, I had a nice buzz going on, just drunk enough to quell the rising hysteria at the back of my mind, but not too drunk to lose control. 

Late Saturday afternoon was the best time we could have picked to play. Most of the punters were awake and wandering around, but not completely out of their senses yet, so the field in front of us was excited and responsive. Thousands of faces stretched in every direction, as far as the eye could see. For once, the English sun had decided to co-operate, and the whole hillside was bathed in a golden glow. Watching from backstage, waiting for the roadies to finish setting up our equipment, I felt a strange sort of peace descend over me. As I walked out and picked up my bass, I waved lazily to the crowd and delighted in the roar of acknowledgement that greeted our simplest gestures. Strolling out by the monitors, I paused to lean down and shake hands with a couple of punters before the sample track started. After a minute, when nothing had happened, I turned around to see Maddie, her headphones dangled around her neck, bending over the sampler and hurriedly punching buttons.

"What's going on?" I asked inquired lazily, jumping up onto the drum riser.

"I don't know!" cried Maddie, an edge of panic creeping into her voice as she fiddled with the cables coming out the back. "It's dead!"

"What do you mean it's dead?" demanded Beth, turning away from her mic stand to glare at us.

"The lights are flashing, but there's no sound coming out," I observed.

"I don't know if it's here or at the board, but there's nothing in my headphones, either," explained Maddie, tearing them off her head and holding them up as proof.

"Shit, think fast," gasped Beth. "What can we do?"

"We could jam," I suggested, lazily starting to finger out the progression to one of our newer songs.

" _Jam_?! In front of 80,000 people? Are you mad?" countered Beth, her voice shrill.

"Not all 80,000 of them are in this field, are they?" laughed Emma, taking a swig of her coconut thing, then joining in on guitar. Shrugging, Maddie kept time on her hi-hat for a few measures, then kicked into action, throwing out a lazy dance beat. The hippies down front were digging it, swaying along, waving their arms in the air like so many sheaves of wheat. Beth stared at us dubiously for a few minutes, then started to sway her mic stand back and forth, catching the melody. That strange light suddenly sparked in her eyes and she sauntered up to the microphone, threw her head back and started to sing, just nonsensical syllables at first, then lines, couplets, lyrics just springing up off the top of her head.

Roadies and crew were scurrying all over the stage, trying to figure out what the problem with the sampler was, but we ignored them, just flexing our musical creativity, finding one interesting phrase, then another, bouncing melody and counterpoint off one another back and forth. There was a time when we used to do this all the time, just making things up off the top of our heads, back before we got so caught up in top 40 singles and world tours.

Halfway through the set, there was a loud popping noise, and the sampler came back online, spouting the drumbeat to our second single through the psychedelic haze that we were spewing forth. A roar went up from the crowd, and we slowly started to slip into the song, first Maddie, then I sinking back into the melody of the verse while Emma belched feedback and strangled noise from her guitar. By the first chorus, we were all in unison again, running up to our microphones to blend our voices together.

We barely had time to run through our three singles before our allotted time was over. As we ran offstage, a roar went up from the crowd, apparently genuinely disappointed that we weren't going to play any more. People were crowding all around me, someone pushed another of those delicious coconut things into my hand. Was I drunk already, or had I simply never bothered to sober up? Pulled every way simultaneously, I meekly followed Beth, grabbing a towel and wiping the fine mist of sweat from my forehead.

Before we could slip off back into the field, our manager, Amy collared us. "Come on, you've got work to do."

"Aw, but we're tired. We just had to improvise in front of 80,000 people," protested Emma. "That takes a lot out of yer!"

"Come on, ladies, you had all of yesterday off to do whatever you please - now you have promotional obligations to fulfil. Someone has to talk to Melody Maker for their special Glasto issue."

"Ooh, that's my one!" announced Beth. "Let me get my butterfly impaling eyes on!"

"Channel Four want some soundbites..."

"Mine!" called Maddie, our resident film and TV obsessive. "Oh, Beth, can I borrow your compact? Is my lippie on straight?" she obsessed, checking her makeup and smoothing down her unruly hair.

"There's some fanzine kids who have been asking for interviews..." continued Amy, going down the list.

"Well, that would be for me, then," agreed Emma, always going out of her way to make time for the fans.

"Which leaves... which leaves..." started Amy, scanning her schedule carefully.

"Me free to go back to the beer tent and get down a few pints before the Rocket Pops set?" I ventured hopefully.

"Not quite." She looked up with a serious expression on her face. "Actually, the Rocket Pops' management want to talk to you."

"What? Why?" I gasped. "Is it something to do with Jeremy?"

"Calm down - keep your voice down. I didn't want to say anything while the others were around because his management hasn't made an official statement yet."

"What's happened? Is he all right? What's he done?" I demanded, flustered, breaking into a trot to keep up with her as she made her way over towards the Rocket Pops' bus.

"He collapsed just after the MTV taping. While the paramedics were loosening his clothing, they found several grams of medical grade heroin on him. They took him to the hospital, but there's talk of possible criminal charges."

"Shit," I swore. "Can I see him?"

"Their manager wants to talk to you first."

"But why?" I complained as we walked up to the side and knocked on the door. Eric answered it almost immediately, staring daggers at me.

"Come in," he directed, leading us into the interior of the bus and up a steep set of stairs to a spacious lounge. Wow. I'd thought our tourbus was impressive, with its sleeping bunks, but this was clearly the luxury model, with a kitchen and an entertainment centre. "Sit down, please." I sat as directed, on the edge of a sofa. "OK, Kate, about Jeremy Kane. How much is he using?"

"Do I have to answer that?" I shot a pleading glance at Amy, but she nodded. "I don't want to get Jeremy in worse trouble than he's already in..."

"He's got himself in deep enough. We're trying to establish whether he needs help."

Looking back and forth between Eric and Amy, I took a deep breath, then plunged in. "Jeremy shot up this morning in the bus before he went to do his MTV interview. He got up at least once during the night, that I saw..." On and on, the ugly words rolled out of my mouth, the tiny minutia of Jeremy's day to day habit. Out in the harsh light of confession, it seemed almost impossible that such a slight man could put away so much of a chemical. Why hadn't I noticed how much? Cursing myself for not saying anything, for not doing anything, I poured out my frustration into an almost obsessively detailed account of Jeremy's drug use. Then again, who was I to condemn Jeremy? The entire time, I had been drunk, or stoned, or finally, tripping my face off on some unidentified substance.

The last question caught me completely by surprise, coming from Amy. "I'm sorry to have to ask you this, Kate, but are you using heroin?"

"Absolutely, unquestionably not!" I spat. The indignance of my reply must have convinced her, as she did not even dare to contradict me. "Where is he? Can I see him?"

For a second, he vacillated, then his face softened. "I can have someone take you over to the hospital now, if you'd like."

By the time I got to the hospital, I was a nervous wreck, but an orderly told me that he was conscious, and waved me into the room. From outside, I could hear the television blaring, but the room was dark except for the flickering light from the screen, showing the now familiar image of the Main Stage, broadcast live over MTV.

"Jeremy," I called out softly, blinking against the gloom of the room.

"Hey! Gordon!" he called back. "Over here." In the shadows of the furthest corner, I could just make out his form, dark against the white of the sheets. "Aw, hey, cut that out!" he winced, holding his arm over his eyes as I switched the light on. Curled up in the midst of that huge bed, connected by an IV drip to threateningly large machines, he looked like a tiny child. I tried to sit demurely on the edge of the seat next to him, but he insisted on kissing me sloppily.

"Jeremy, stop it!" I hissed. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in right now?" He merely smiled placidly and shrugged. "Your manager called me over and asked me questions about how much you're using!"

Jeremy shrugged. "I told Eric I wouldn't do the rest of the tour without enough shit to get me through," he explained calmly.

"There might not even be a rest of the tour," I told him firmly, refusing to let the meaning of what he was saying penetrate my brain. Eric wasn't asking me how much Jeremy was using in order to help him, he was trying to estimate how much of a bribe he would need to keep him on tour. How could he sanction that as a manager... how could he sanction that as a _human being_?

"But I feel fine! As soon as they let me out of here, I'm going right back to Glasto to do the show."

"Jeremy, have you heard a word I've said. It might not the doctors detaining you, it might be the police! You could go to jail, Jeremy! At the very least, they'll send you to a rehab."

"No!" he insisted stubbornly. "I'm not going back to rehab. No way."

"You've been in one before?" I inquired incredulously.

"Yeah, the label tried to make us go when we got signed. Oh, god, it was awful. I'm not going back."

"You may not have a choice."

 

The next few days were strained, to say the least. The doctors were keeping Jeremy in the hospital, trying to stabilise him on methadone, but he required such an incredibly high dosage that they were afraid to keep him on it for long. I didn't understand the details; the medical intimacies of high-quantity heroin abuse were not something I'd ever even _wanted_ to understand.

But as soon as anyone tried to reduce or reduce or withhold the dosage, Jeremy grew cranky and impatient, hurling trays and smashing plates like the spoiled rock star that he was. Alternately sullen and pleading, he would scream at me to leave him alone, then a few minutes later, send someone running after me to insist that I stay.

I stayed until well after well after the end of visiting hours, but still he was not content, urging me to hide in the bathroom until the nurses had done their rounds. When I refused, he grew obstreperous, climbing out of bed to chase after me, nearly ripping the IV drip from his arms.

"Stop it!" I finally snapped. "Or I'm not coming back tomorrow. As far as I'm concerned, you can just rot here!"

He clutched at my hand, his eyes widening in true fear for the first time. "No, Kate, please, you can't leave me. Just promise me you'll be back. You can't leave me alone."

"I'll be back, just let go of my hand," I assured him, but Amy accosted me as soon as we were out of earshot.

"Kate, you're supposed to be in Belgium tomorrow," she reminded me.

"Oh, shit... I can't. I have to stay, Amy."

She stopped, looked around surreptitiously to make sure no one was listening, then turned back to me, boring into me with her eyes. "Kate, I'm saying this, not as your manager, but as someone who cares about you as a friend, let me tell you - he's not worth it."

"I know," I sobbed, trying unsuccessfully to hold the tears back. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't love that fucker, I never have and I never will. But part of me feels guilty, cause if I'd just said one word to Eric, months ago, none of this would have happened. It would all have stopped then and there."

"It's not your fault! Jesus Christ, Kate, you can't blame yourself for this. I don't even trust Eric professionally - personally? Forget it! You heard Jeremy - it was Eric that bought him that stash in the first place."

"I can't leave him now, not like this. Shit, he's got enough problems going on in his life without his girlfriend walking out on him. _No one else cares_. Don't you understand? Eric would  - fuck  - Eric _has_ sacrificed Jeremy's life for his fucking contractual obligations. I can't just walk out and leave him at the mercy of a man like that, not at a time like this."

Amy sighed and rolled her eyes. "Shit, Kate, there's never going to be a right time. Perhaps if you actually leave him it'll shock him into realising how far he's out of control."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"And that's exactly what he's doing to you."

I couldn't even bring up the courage to face him the next day, choosing instead to take the easy way out and call him before he left for court. When I explained that I couldn't be with him, that I had to go to Belgium, he took it surprisingly calmly. Rather than scream bloody murder, he simply sighed and told me that he missed me. That was the Jeremy I knew, the sweet, kind and lovely boy - perhaps it was just the heroin that had turned him into the bloated ego support machine he had become.

"Jeremy, please, listen to me," I begged him, bargaining for time. "If they send you to rehab, promise me that you'll go."

"But Kate..."

"No, Jeremy, you have to. I'll be waiting for you when you get out, but you have to go. I... I can't live like this any longer. You have to do something."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then finally he sighed. "I promise. I'll go. But you better be waiting for me when I get out."

"I will," I told him, knowing as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it was a deliberate lie.

 

\----------

 

Over the next few days, I tried not to even think about Jeremy. Life resumed its usual whirlwind of club dates, theatre dates in the countries where we were more widely known, and endless interviews and promotional press. Of course the first question everyone wanted to ask was "What was the story with the Rocket Pops' mysterious Glasto cancellation and Jeremy Kane's subsequent collapse?" No matter how many times, I politely replied that I did not want to talk about it, they grew more and more intrusive until Beth and Emma started to throw me annoyed looks. They didn't have to say it; I knew what they were thinking. "We're here to promote an album, and all the press wants to talk about is your boyfriend's drug problem."

Maddie was the only person who tried to be supportive, taking the time to ask me how I was holding up under the pressure. "If you need to talk, I'm here," she told me in a quiet moment between soundchecks. "You might not know this, but I've been through this before, with my own brother. Tony had a heroin problem, for years, when he was still in The Jesus Sugarpussy. If you need to talk..." she offered.

"I don't want to talk," I insisted. If I didn't talk about it, it was like I didn't have to acknowledge it, let alone deal with it.

"But if you _need_ to," Maddie repeated, squeezing my hand, before making her way off to sign autographs for a bunch of kids milling outside the venue doors.

Since Glastonbury, Maddie had changed subtly but noticeably. No longer did she rush home from every gig to phone home, in fact she barely called Carlos at all, ignoring the urgent messages I saw her collect at each hotel we checked into. Not that she seemed at all depressed or disheartened; if anything she had a new spring in her step and a strange wild light in her eyes, like someone noticing the world around them for the first time. She and Carlos had been together since she was 15, that was nearly half her life, how could a person just shrug that off so lightly? But whereas before, she had always been the first person to leave the aftershow parties, now she actually seemed to enjoy them, staying on to talk to fans for hours.

In my mind, I had already made my own separation. Jeremy was a part of my life that I wished to put behind me as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Already, I caught myself eyeing the boys in the audience with more than a professional curiosity. When some of the lads I'd been giving the eye started to turn up at the aftershow, I grew suspicious, but it wasn't until a few nights later that I managed to spy Amy working the crowd, casually pressing backstage passes into the hands of likely candidates. Well, if she was going to try to meddle in my love life, I was going to tell her exactly what I required.

"Tall, thin, lanky, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, good nose, nice hair. Definitely has to be some serious fringe action going on or it's no go," I specified, only half joking, before the next gig, somewhere in Germany.

By the end of the show, I had completely forgotten about our little arrangement, but as soon as I got offstage, Amy came bounding up to me, trying to conceal someone hiding behind her. "Will this one do?" she joked.

"This what?" I asked in all innocence.

"This fringe..." Giggling madly, she pulled the secret person behind her into the light.

"Tristram!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" Before I could protest, he had swept his arms around my waist, crushing me against him and bringing his mouth down on top of mine. My lips parted, and his tongue snaked into my mouth, searching insistently. "Well, hello, yourself," I laughed when he finally pulled away.

He smiled radiantly, flicking his long blond fringe out of his eyes. "I'm so glad you're still here. I was terrified I'd miss you. We had tonight off, so I flew into Hamburg, but the plane was delayed, I completely missed your show, again, but luckily I ran into Amy on the way in, who brought me back here - what was that about, anyway?" he panted, barely stopping for breath.

"Oh, that..." For a minute, I contemplated explaining the new active interest Amy was taking in my dating habits, then shook my head. I didn't want him to consider it yet another slur on my sexuality. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just tonight..." He grinned apologetically. "I know I shouldn't have come. I just had to see you again and I didn't want to have to wait until August." Cupping my face in his hands, he stared into my eyes with tangible desire. "We'll be playing together at the Reading and Leeds Festivals, you know."

"It'll be a madhouse, I'm sure," I sighed.

"I know... that's why I want you all to myself now." 

I made some excuse to go back to the hotel under the pretext of changing, but once we were in my room, all notions of going anywhere seemed to evaporate. Without a moment's hesitation, I found myself pushing him down on the bed, stripping his shirt off and gnawing hungrily at his ribs, moving steadily lower towards the patch of sandy hair on his belly.

Soon, our bodies were straining together, coupling without much thought to anything beyond the moment. Only when I was pinned beneath someone else's hips did the maddening whirlwind of my thoughts seem to blow itself out. When the familiar wave of orgasm washed over me, I slumped back against the pillow, my mind cleansed of everything except the texture of his white-blond hair between my fingers.

He raised himself slightly, beaming placidly down at me. After a protracted silence, he finally spoke. "So what does this make us?"

I shrugged and looked away. There, that nagging unease in the back of my head was stirring to consciousness again. "A bad habit?"

"Not one I particularly feel like breaking," he sighed, resting his head on my chest, nuzzling his face between my breasts. As if remembering something, he pricked his head up again. "Again, just like Jeremy,"

"Not quite," I replied with an air of finality he chose to ignore.

"So what did happen with Jeremy, you know, after I left..." he probed, less than subtly.

"I really do not feel like discussing Jeremy at this time! Jeremy and I are through, end of story." I snorted, but he eyed me with that mocking smirk of disbelief as the nagging doubt in the pit of my stomach grew into a coiling serpent, threatening to rise up and asphyxiate me. "If I am everything you despise most about women incarnate, then what the hell are you doing here? 

"I don't know, to be honest," Tristram shrugged, then changed his mind. "Well, I suppose I do know really..."

I charged on regardless. "Why do you only ever make these sweeping accusations about me and my life? Why don't we discuss you and _your_ fucking mistakes for a change?"

Tristram laughed as if he hadn't heard me. "Yeah, I do know what it is. Funnily enough, you remind me of my ex-wife."

"And what _about_ your wife - sorry - _ex_ -wife," I spat, hearing the details but not the substance. "Why don't we ever bring her up, oh he-who-is-without-sin?"

He sat up, pulling away from me with a puzzled and slightly hurt expression on his face. "Well, you never asked about her." 

I climbed out of bed, reaching for my robe and pouring myself a glass of water. The sense of tranquillity never lasted long enough. And bloody hell, what the hell had I been thinking, dropping everything to go running off to another meaningless encounter with Tristram? If I smoked, now would be the perfect time to dramatically light a cigarette and blow impatient clouds into the air.

He lay back, folding his arms behind his head, staring resolutely up at the ceiling. "What do you want me to say? We made a mistake. I went into it with all the best of intentions. I didn't want to get caught up in the whole trap of fame, of getting carried away with meaningless sex and no responsibilities. So I ended up going to the other extreme, and locking myself into something we were far too young for, and just not ready for. We'd known each other for ever, we were childhood sweethearts, really. Just, when things started really taking off with the band, well, it was just too much. You don't think things are going to change, but they do. We'd been together night and day through everything, we thought, thick and thin - mostly thin, mind you. I was never there any more - on the road for months at a time. You know how it is. Never together, except for a day here, a day there. It just wasn't enough. Same old fucking rock sob story. She got bored, sick of waiting for me. Then one day, she just calls me out of the blue, tells me it's gone, she just doesn't want to be with me any more. Found out she'd shacked up with one of my mates while I was on tour." He paused, and turned his eyes back to me. "Is that enough, or do you need me to go on?"

I shook my head. "Not if you don't want to."

"No, not particularly, I don't."

I sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to him. "Are you staying the night?"

"Why? Do you want me to go?"

"I just don't want you to think that... that this makes us..." Words failed me. How could I say what I wanted to say without sounding like the cruel heartless bitch he'd like to believe I was. I didn't want him to think that these occasional encounters meant that we were...

"Lovers," he finished, rolling over to face the wall. "I should go..."

"You don't have to, you can stay, just not under any false pretenses," I offered weakly, heading towards the bathroom to clean myself up. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared at my reflection, tracing the dark circles under my eyes as if they were merely dirt that could washed away. "This is not leaving a physical mark on me," I told myself resolutely. "I can walk out at any time I want. I can just wash them all away." Leaning my head against the bathroom door, I strained to hear what was happening out in my room, torn between wanting him to leave me alone and wanting someone to wrap their arms around me while I slept. Whichever way he wanted it, it was his decision; I wasn't inviting him to do anything he didn't agree to. I didn't love him, and I wanted him to know that, and accept that, unlike Jeremy.

After a few minutes, I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. A brief perusal of the shabby hotel room, the drawn curtains, the rumpled sheets, and I realised that I was alone. For some time, I stood there, staring at the empty bed, biting my lip. "Well, to hell with you, then," I whispered to the empty space where he had lain, smoothing down the blanket to erase the few traces of him. It wasn't until he was gone that I realised how much I had wanted him to stay, curling up into a ball on the far side of the bed. But no matter how hard I tried, I could still catch the faint patchouli smell of his sweat, crushed into my pillow.

My body ached with more than mere loneliness. It wasn't so much that I had wanted him to stay as I hadn't wanted to be by myself. The only thing I really missed about Jeremy was the feeling of his arms wrapped around my waist as we slept. Curling up into a ball in the corner of the bed, I sat, alone with my confusion. I padded over to the connecting door and softly knocked, but of course there was no reply. My bandmates would surely still be at the aftershow, or else sampling the all-night entertainment Hamburg was famous for. When I lay down and tried to sleep, my head was flooded with regrets. Why had I not asked Tristram to stay? No, I'd had enough of lying. It wasn't him I wanted and it wasn't fair to him to pretend.

Against every shred of judgement, I found myself picking up the telephone and dialling the international calling code and that still familiar phone number. The phone rang once, twice, then the answering machine picked up. It was well after midnight, his club should be closed by now. He had no reason not to be home, unless... well, I didn't want to think about that.

"Alex, it's Kate..." I began, my voice quavering. "I haven't heard from you in a long time. I was wondering how you were... I heard... Well, what I heard isn't important. I just wanted to know that you were all right. That's all." I paused, breathing for a while, wondering if he was going to pick up or if he was simply listening to the tape whirring in the dark. "We're... we're still on tour. It's Germany, I think. We'll be back in England for some festivals towards the end of the summer. Perhaps I'll see you there..." 

I wanted to say so much more, but the words choked up in my throat. I miss hearing your voice; I miss your snide comments and your wry witticisms. I miss the way you stab at the air with your cigarette when you speak. I miss the tiny hollow that forms at the base of your neck when you throw your head back and roll your eyes. I miss the way you cock your head and listen with that mischevious little smile of understanding, and the way your eyes light up when you are about to say something truly outrageous. But without saying any of it, I put the phone gently back into its cradle, rolled over and started to softly cry.


	13. Methodrone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy escapes from rehab, and turns up back on the Charms tour. Is his subsequent overdose an accident, an attempt at emotional blackmail, or a dress rehearsal?

Over the next few weeks, I felt myself slipping further and further into a shallow but pervasive depression. None of this seemed new any more, the magic sparkle had gone, and I suddenly felt very alone in a strange country. Even the nightly rebirth of the performance was growing tired, the same set, the same routine, the same act repeated night after night until all the life had been sucked out of it. I was tired, I was sick of the songs, I was perpetually hungover and all I wanted was to go home. 

When I was younger, I'd dreamed of a life that was just a continual travelling party, a different city every night, a drink placed in my hand every time I turned around, attractive young men hanging on my every word, money burning a hole in my pocket. But every morning, when I awoke with that churning void in the pit of my belly and emptied my stomach into another hotel toilet, the doubt returned. So why, then, could I not shake the nagging feeling of incompleteness? If this was supposed to be the answer to all my prayers, why the constant sensation of empty hollowness?

I hated to admit it, but Alex's words had proven so prophetic. "All your teenage dreams have come true and it's turned into a nightmare. Welcome to the life of a rock star."

After an appalling performance somewhere in Holland and a particularly draining interview with a journalist who spoke only halting English at best and spent most of our allotted hour staring at my chest, I returned to my hotel room to crash out. Just a few glasses of wine past sobriety, but not entirely plastered yet, I staggered slightly, fumbling with the magnetic door key. Funny, I hadn't recalled leaving the bathroom light on, I noticed without the information fully registering on my conscious mind. Without bothering to do anything more than kick off my shoes, I lay face down on the bed and waited for the drink to do its trick and let me sink down into my exhaustion.

There was a flicker of light, then I heard footsteps and the light pressure of someone climbing onto the bed beside me. Shooting out of bed, I grasped wildly for the light switch. "Who's there?"

"Calm down, Gordon, it's only me!"

"Jeremy!" I gasped, staring down at the frail creature sprawled out on my bed. I had so reconciled myself to the idea that we would never see each other again, it was like seeing a ghost. He even looked slightly transparent, his skin pale with a sickly grey cast, and his hair washed out, the red dye no more than a stain up where his dirty blond roots were coming in. "Bloody hell, Jeremy, you frightened me!" 

"I'm not that scary," he laughed, and pulled a face, striking a horror movie stance.

"It's not a joke, Jeremy. What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be in rehab!"

He shrugged. "I ran away."

"You can't just run away! You have to go back."

Jeremy shook his head desperately, a look of panic passing across his pale, watery eyes. "God, no, please. Don't make me go back there..."

"Jeremy, you have to! If you get caught, it's not me that's going to make you, it's the law!" Padding around to the other side of the bed, I reached for the phone, but he grabbed my hand.

"Who are you calling?" he demanded roughly. Despite his appearance, he still had incredible strength in his skeletal arms.

"I'm calling Eric. You can't stay here!" I insisted.

He seized the phone away from me, ripping it out of the wall. "You don't understand what it's like in there! Always shoving that AA bullshit in my face. They're always badgering me to talk about shit - I don't want to tell complete strangers personal things like that."

I pulled away from him, suddenly afraid. "Jeremy, you promised me you'd do it..." I sighed, trying to clear the fumes of sleep and alcohol from my mind. "You need to get well, you have to get off this shit..." Coming from me that argument sounded hollow and hypocritical. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he eyed me with obvious disbelief. "You have to do it or you'll end up in jail!" I added with somewhat more conviction.

"I'm not going. I'm not going," he repeated. "I'd rather go to jail than go back there!" He scratched his arm lazily, his eyelids fluttering in that all too familiar way.

"Are you high?"

"Noooo..." he lied, but I seized his arm, tracing an angry red welt, fresh among the old healing scars.

"Jeremy, why?" I whined. "You were nearly off it!"

"They were feeding me methadone. It's just as bad and you don't even get the high off it. Besides, you're drunk, aren't you? I can smell it on your breath," he threw back at me.

"It's not the same," I defended.

"Addiction is addiction," he accused.

"I'm not addicted to alcohol."

"You're in denial," Jeremy replied smugly, folding his arms.

"Don't use that fucking 12-stepper therapy speak on me!" I exploded. Jeremy said nothing, slumping back on the bed with a self satisfied expression on his face. "You can't stay here," I repeated, edging towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, shaking himself back to consciousness. "You can't leave me." 

Leaning back against the wall, I sunk down, clutching my head as if merely holding it could still the dizzying disorientation. "Sooner or later, someone will find you here. The first place they'll look is with me."

"So we'll run away together," he asserted. "Just you and me, we'll just pick up and go somewhere."

"Jeremy, No! Just stop it! I'm not going anywhere with you!" I snapped. 

He shook his head slowly. "You don't mean that, you're just shocked and a bit upset. Sleep - you'll feel different in the morning."

"And what do we do in the morning when Amy comes to wake me up? I have to go to Italy tomorrow!"

"We'll run away and leave," he repeated.

"I don't want to run away! And certainly not with you! Face it! It's over! I don't want to be with you any more! I can't live like this. We're through! Leave me alone!" I hadn't meant for it all to come spilling out like this; I had wanted to find a tactful way of telling him, but this was just too much.

He stopped, staring at me in disbelief. "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do. We're through, Jeremy," I repeated.

Shaking his head, he climbed off the bed, picked his bag off the bed and headed for the door. "You'll be sorry," he warned, very quietly, as he walked past me.

"Where are you going?" I asked, trying to calm down.

"Like you care," he spat, shouldering his way past me to the door.

"Jeremy, stop..." I protested lamely. "Please, let me just call Eric, maybe we can find you a different rehab," I pleaded, unwilling to let him out of my sight. Putting my arms around his waist, I pulled him back into the room. "Stay here, let me make a phone call... just promise me you'll stay here until I get back..."

"You're coming back? You're coming back to me?"

"No! Not like that! Stop it, Jeremy!" I exhorted. "Just wait here..." Dashing down the hall to Beth's room, I pounded on the door.

She answered the door slowly, clutching an oversized man's shirt around her body. "What the hell is going on?" she demanded as I pushed my way past her into the room.

"Beth, I have to use your phone," I panted.

"I was... You can't come in, Gary's here..." she whined. "Why... what..." As she tried to keep me out of the room, I saw a shadowy form roll across the bed, pulling the sheets over sun-tanned flesh.

"He's back..." I tried to explain, digging through my wallet for Eric's cell phone number.

"Who's back?"

"Jeremy! He ran away from rehab. He's here!"

"He's here?" she repeated, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "In the hotel?"

"He's in my room. He pulled the phone out of the wall so I couldn't call anyone. Jesus Christ, Eric, pick up the phone..." I swore as the phone rang and rang. Frantically, I dialled another number, but that one merely clicked and politely told me that the customer's mobile was switched off or out of range.

"But what is he doing here? He's supposed to be in rehab..." Beth mumbled sleepily, sitting down on the edge of the bed and lighting a cigarette. Gary stirred slightly, throwing his enormously long arms around her shoulders. He drew her backwards into his embrace, nuzzling her neck reassuringly before he casually took the cigarette from her lips and drew a soft breath.

"Damn, an answering machine," I muttered as I tried another number. "Eric, it's Kate. Please call the Amsterdam Hilton as soon as you get this message. Jeremy is with me. He just showed up in my hotel room. He's high as a fucking kite..."

Suddenly the phone clicked and someone picked up. "Kate, don't hang up. Jeremy is with you?"

"Yeah," I replied gratefully.

"I'll call the hospital and get the next plane out. And Kate, don't take your eyes off him for a second."

Putting the phone back in its cradle, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and turned to go back to my room. "Everything is OK now," I assured myself as much as her, then padded softly back to my room. "Jeremy... I called Eric. He's on his way here," I told him softly, relieved to see his prone body still splayed out across my bed. "Everything is going to be OK..." Padding across the room, I knelt down to examine the damage he'd done to the phone cord where it had pulled out of the wall. "Shit, Jeremy, you're going to have to pay for this..." When he did not reply, I glanced upwards at his face, half buried against the pillow. "Jeremy..?" I had seen him deep in his nod before, but this was different. His skin had a slight blue tone, his eyes were open, dilated and staring blankly off into space. "Jeremy..!" When I prodded him slightly, I realised that he was not breathing. "Jesus fucking Christ. Beth..." Running back along the hall, I banged desperately on the doors. "Gary... Anyone... someone, please help me..."

"What now..." she muttered, stumbling to her door again. 

"Call an ambulance... Quick!" I gasped.

Doors were opening up and down the hall, raised by the noise. "Kate, what's going on?" inquired Amy in her most annoyed voice.

"It's Jeremy. I can't explain... Shit, call a doctor, somebody..."

Following me back into my room, Amy sat down by his side and seized him by the chin, slapping his face sharply. "Jeremy! Jeremy, wake up!"

Gary appeared by her side. "Hang on a minute - I know CPR, had to learn it back in my yachting days. Let me try." Rolling the lad onto his back, he started to pump his chest rhythmically. Jeremy shuddered slightly, coughed and began to stir. Beth stared at Gary, her eyes shining with open admiration.

After a few minutes, the room slowly started to fill up with medical staff. Clinging to Jeremy's hand, I followed them out as they heaved him onto a stretcher and rolled him out to the waiting ambulance. As we rushed through the darkened city at breakneck speeds, I tried to explain what had happened.

"I don't know if it was intentional or not..." I stuttered desperately, wracked with guilt over our last confrontation. What had he meant by that, the way he'd looked at me accusingly and informed me I'd be sorry?

"Well, that doesn't matter at this point," the nurse told me, prying my grip off his arm as they tried to take him into the ER. "The doctor will give him adrenaline to kick start his heart. All we can do is pump him with saline and try to make him more comfortable."

"What are they going to do to him," I pleaded. "Is he going to be OK?" pacing nervously.

"Kate, let's go back to the hotel. There's nothing further we can do here," Amy begged me. "We have a show tomorrow, we've got a long way to go - you need your sleep."

"It's not just any show!" protested Beth. "It's the Reading festival! All your pals are going to be there, Kate! Slur will be there..."

Slur. That stopped me cold, feeling the odd sinking sensation of the bottom dropping out of my stomach. I hadn't seen Alex in months, hadn't even thought about him in weeks, and now suddenly he would be thrust back into my life. Alex, single, broken up with Mimi because of an alleged  - desired but never consummated  - affair with me. For a second I wavered, considering just turning around and leaving Jeremy to die in this strange hospital, but a wave of overwhelming guilt consumed me.

"But it's all my fault," I wailed, refusing to leave the waiting room.

"How is Jeremy's heroin habit your fault?" she tried to reason.

"You don't understand! It wasn't an accident, Beth!"

"Don't be ridiculous. You heard what the doctor said - this often happens to relapsing addicts. He'd been on a reduction dosage of methadone for 2 weeks - he just wasn't able to handle his old dose."

I shook my head. "He did it cause I told him we were through."

"You mean you didn't tell him before he went in? Kate..."

"I couldn't. He thought he'd come out and I'd just be waiting for him. Oh god, Beth, I've really made a mess of things... This is why I didn't tell him... I was afraid of what he'd do and now he's done it..."

"Kate, you're not responsible," she repeated, though her voice wavered, giving me just enough emotional ammunition to convince myself of my own guilt.

"I'm staying. I owe him at least that much. I won't miss the gig - I'll fly out tonight for the show. You can do the soundcheck without me."

She tried one last feeble attempt to get me to go with her, then gave up. Amy made a few more phone calls, then announced that she'd booked me a flight out of Amsterdam the next afternoon. Although their words were as supportive as possible, the way they shook their heads and clucked their tongues, making it perfectly clear they thought I was mad. But deep down I knew, it wasn't even loyalty to Jeremy that made me stay; it was fear of seeing Alex.

Beth turned back towards me, letting Gary's hand drop as she observed me with huge, worried eyes. "Do you want me to..."

"Come on, Beth!" interjected Gary. "We've got a plane to catch..."

Watching them walk out of the waiting room, I felt like yet another support was being kicked out from under me.

I dozed lightly in the waiting room, but could not sleep, padding up to the door every few minutes, only to be turned away by the doctors, and told that there was no change in the patient's condition. Finally, after what seemed like hours, a nurse emerged and told me that I could go in. The sight of Jeremy, tiny and powerless, lost in a sea of hospital linen and IV tubes had become a familiar one. I no longer felt anything except a vague sense of pity, and an overwhelming wave of guilt. Settling down into the bedside chair, I fell asleep to the gentle throb of the heart monitor.

When I awoke, Jeremy had shifted, seizing my hand tightly at some point in the night, holding on with a vice like grip. I could hear voices in the hall, first in Dutch, then in English. Eric was out in the hall, giving orders, taking charge. "I want him moved to a private room - now! Has there been any press in here? Well, keep it that way. You!" He froze when he saw me, pointing his finger accusingly. "What the hell are you doing here? Haven't you done enough?"

I straightened defensively. "May I remind you who called _you_ and told you where he was? May I remind you who called the ambulance? If it wasn't for me, he could be dead right now."

"If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have broken out of the rehab in the first place." Turning around, he addressed one of the hospital staff curtly. "Who let her in here? Get her out right now."

The orderlies exchanged worried glances, unwilling to eject the person who'd brought in the patient. Rather than fight over it, I slowly rose to my feet, but Jeremy stirred, clutching my hand. "Kate, where are you going?" he asked faintly.

"Come on! Get her out of here!" repeated Eric, growing impatient.

Jeremy sat up, blinking furiously. "No! She stays! She stays or I'll fucking kill myself," he blurted out. My stomach lurched sickeningly.

"Jeremy, cut the crap. You're in no position to be demanding anything right now," dismissed Eric.

"Then I've got nothing to lose, then, have I?" shot back Jeremy.

"You're going back to the rehab tonight."

"I refuse!"

"You can't refuse. If you get caught on smack again, you'll go to jail. A pretty boy like you wouldn't last two minutes in jail."

I'd already sat through this conversation once before, in another hospital room in England. Eric had had all the ammunition then, but Jeremy had obviously been talking to someone. "Then I'll take my chances with the courts. I'm not in England now. There's been no trial. It'll probably take them months to get around to my case. I can be out of the country before they catch up with me."

Eric stopped in his tracks, obviously taken aback. "That's totally unacceptable."

"Send me back to rehab and I will finish the job. I'll kill myself," he threatened, his watery eyes flashing with a new steel I'd never seen before.

"Jesus Christ... forget the rehab. You need a fucking loony bin," muttered Eric, starting to pace back and forth. "Let me think... shit... I need to call your lawyer..." Whirling around, he proceeded to take out his frustration on the nearest object, an unfortunate nurse. "Didn't I tell you fucking people to get Mr. Kane a private room?"

Until Eric had arrived, no one had noticed the pop star hidden away in the corner, hanging between life and death. When he was admitted, I had deliberately downplayed Jeremy's identity, knowing that his best hope lay in anonymity. Now, people were starting to stare, wondering what the sudden commotion was about.

A gurney appeared out of nowhere. Nurses crowded around and Jeremy was borne up like some boy prince, still clutching my hand. As we slid through the hall, someone who looked like a patient shuffled past us, then suddenly a flash bulb went off.

"Don't you have any respect?" I howled in indignation.

"Stop that man!" cried Eric, searching wildly for the culprit. There was a scuffle, one of the nurses cried out and the paparazzi broke away, dashing down the hall. 

"The chart! He got the patient's records," wailed the flustered nurse.

" _Jesus Fucking Christ_!" swore Eric, tearing off after him, but the stranger had the element of surprise in his favour. In a moment, he was through the doors, with Eric lagging behind. There was the sound of squealing tires, then Eric came stomping back in. "What was in those charts?" he demanded of the nurse.

"The usual... vital statistics, records... the results of the blood tests..." she stuttered hesitantly.

"Blood tests?" thundered Eric. "You can kiss your court case goodbye, Jeremy! Fuck! Fuck! I can't believe this... I'll sue any newspaper that prints a word of it..." Turning back, he fell viciously on Jeremy. "Do you see what you've done? Why couldn't you have just stayed where you were? We had it all planned out..."

The doctor stepped between them warily. "If you don't calm down, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Eric threw up his hands, then wisely turned away. "I have phone calls to make, damage control to institute. Now you..." He waved his finger threateningly in the doctor's face. "...Had better make sure nothing like that happens again, or I will sue you, the hospital, and anyone else who happens to be standing too close!"

When we were alone in the private room, I breathed slightly more easily, but I knew the comparative sense of calm was only the eye of the storm. A nurse came and gave him something mixed in with a glass of orange juice; yet another unpleasant reminded of why we were here. "God, Jeremy, what else can go wrong?" I sighed, but he folded my hands in his and kissed them tenderly.

"So long as we are together, everything is going to be OK," he assured me, and I wanted desperately to believe him, to lay my head down in his lap and cling to him, but I sat stiffly in the chair by the bed, too scared to contradict him. "Why the hell would anyone want to steal my charts, anyway?"

"Oh, god, Jeremy, you just don't understand how serious this is, do you?" I whispered, pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes. His once fashionable haircut was now a long, tangled mass of snarls. For an achingly guilty second, I actually contemplated how much simpler it would have been if Jeremy had died, then immediately hated myself for thinking it. "If any newspaper even thinks of publishing it, we can immediately threaten to bring them up on charges as an accomplice to theft," I ruminated out loud. "We might even be able to get a gagging order..."

"Just don't leave me... promise you won't leave me..."

"Jeremy, I have a gig to play in England tomorrow night..." I protested, leaning over to kiss his forehead. His eyelids were fluttering slightly, long lashes brushing softly against his cheeks - he wasn't hearing me; he was slipping back into his own world. Settling back into the seat, I tried to find the most comfortable position to sleep, but Jeremy would not let loose his grip on my hand.

I slept fitfully for the next few hours, then as the clock ticked closer to the time of my flight, I shook Jeremy tentatively at first, then more roughly.

"Where are you going?" he demanded groggily.

"I told you. I have to play a gig tonight in England."

"I'm going with you," he insisted.

"Jeremy, you can't..." I stuttered.

"I feel fine," he asserted, pulling the IV needle out of his callused and scarred arm as casually as if it was his works. Smiling placidly, he pulled his clothes out of the paper bag on the adjacent table and pulled them on. Now that he was out of physical danger, no one seemed to pay much attention to either of us. There hadn't even been any police. A terrible idea flashed through my mind... what if Jeremy had planned this all along? What if he'd waited until he knew we were going to be in drugs-tolerant Holland? Perhaps he'd planned the whole suicide attempt as some sort of desperate bid... No, it wasn't possible. He didn't have the brains to come up with something like that. Or was that too nasty?


	14. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate makes her way to the Reading Festival (with a recalcitrant Jeremy in tow) and runs straight into Slur. As the newly single Alex is being completely beastly, and Jeremy is behaving worse, Kate finds tea and sympathy from an unlikely source...
> 
> (Special bonus double chapter update today because I'm going to be away next week.)

Reading was a Hell of hot sun and thousands of sweaty festival-bound indie kids, metal-heads and ravers. After a crowded train journey, we were deposited unceremoniously at a great ugly modernist hunk of a train station in the centre of town. It was only a twenty minute walk to the festival site, but Jeremy didn't look in much shape to be walking anywhere. Besides, the chances of either or both of us being recognised, especially together, were fairly horrifying. And without backstage passes or a tour bus to prove our status, we risked the indignity of being turned away from the artists entrance of the festival site by over-eager security people. 

But as I turned the corner to see the queue swelling by the taxi rank, I realised we had a snowball's chance in hell of getting a cab. Traffic was slowed to a crawl from the centre of town out to the festival site; there was nothing for it but to walk, dragging a protesting Jeremy behind me. Our crowning achievement of the summer, second on the bill at the indie tent at the Reading Festival, and where was I? Slumming along the pavement with my junkie boyfriend.

I had no idea how we were going to blag it, but I walked around to the backstage entrance behind the site, hoping that Amy had remembered to leave me my pass or at least a ticket. After a brief conversation, it transpired that the good news was that I had a pass, but the bad news was that there was no ticket for Jeremy. Fortunately, the woman at the entrance turned out to be a Rocket Pops fan, and with minimal charm on Jeremy's part, he actually managed to blag a VIP wristband. As soon as we were past the security guards, I decided to rejoin my own band as quickly as possible. "Are you coming?" I asked Jeremy impatiently, but he was already lost to the world.

"Naw... think I'm going to hang here and chill with my mates for a bit," he drawled slowly, waving at a gang of chancers sitting smoking at a table in the backstage enclosure. "I'll see you in a bit..." For a moment, I stared at them, insulted and annoyed that he could desert me so easily after I'd sat up with him all night. But as the greasiest of the lot dug around in his jacket then passed something to Jeremy, I turned away, disgusted.

"Yeah, right," I muttered to myself, picking my way through the parking lot. Abruptly, I saw the familiar face of a harried looking guitar tech. "Roger!" I called, jumping up and down helplessly, trying to get his attention.

He turned slowly, cautiously scanning the crowd for some psychotic stalker or a rabid fan, but burst into a broad smile of relief when he saw me. "Kate! Funny you should turn up. My boys were just asking if anyone had seen you. Especially Alex. No one's quite been able to get his amp set up the way that you had it."

My chest did that strange tightening thing that seemed to happen any time anyone mentioned Alex. "Really? I haven't seen them in... months," I stuttered vacuously.

"God, it's good to be home," he sighed, stretching contentedly. "We've been on tour in your bleeding country for months. Though I have to admit, it was more fun when you were with us," he added.

"Really?" was all I could squeeze out.

"At least Alex was more bearable," he teased, needling me with his elbow. "Come on and say hullo. They'll be pleased to see you." Forgetting all about finding my band, I followed him over pathetically. "Look what I found hanging around by the backstage door," he hooted.

Damon jumped up and embraced me warmly, actually looking pleased to see me. "Kate! We heard you were playing today! Are you going to be in Leeds tomorrow, as well?"

I nodded, craning my neck to look for Alex. "That's the plan. Where's our lad got to?"

"Alex?" Damon's voice was strained, obviously hiding something. Following his gaze, I saw Alex deep in conversation with a girl, leaning so close he was practically resting his head on her chest. "Alex, is that a beer?"

"No," he lied, pressing the cup he had been drinking into the hands of the giggling teenager, who looked barely old enough to drive, let alone buy beer. He grinned wolfishly, then as his eyes swept over me, his face, dropped, turning to that sheepish look of guilt as if he'd been caught doing something incredibly naughty. Straightening up, he pulled away from the girl nervously. "Kate... erm... hullo..."

"Alex, are you drunk again?" accused Damon as Alex carefully picked his way over towards us, none too steady on his feet.

"I am not drunk," Alex defended, smirking slightly in my direction. "See, the space-time continuum is curved by gravitational masses that we can't see. In the fourth dimension I'm walking a completely straight line."

A wave of conflicting emotions surged up inside me. Was the bastard was using our own private jokes to pick up teenage groupies? I felt like slapping the silly grin off his face. "I can't stay long. I have to find my own band," I explained by way of excuse, backing off slowly. "And rescue my Jeremy from his pharmaceutical buddies..." I added, with a pointed jab.

"How is Jeremy, anyway?" replied Alex snidely, but from the jealous light in his eyes, I could tell I had hit a nerve. "Last thing I heard he was recovering from 'nervous exhaustion' at The Priory."

Refusing to even dignify that with an answer, I turned away before the tears stinging my eyes could have a chance to spill out over my cheeks. What had I been expecting, anyway? A teary and broken-hearted Alex falling sobbing into my arms, so I could console him and kiss away his tears? Not bloody likely. Freed from the shackles of a relationship, he was drinking and chasing girls like a profligate. From his band members' attitudes, I could probably guess this behaviour wasn't at all out of the ordinary. Cursing my stupidity, I headed straight towards the dressing rooms, scanning the crowd for any sign of the rest of my band.

"Kate!" called Amy, running over, waving her arms, desperately trying to catch my attention. "Where's Jeremy?"

"If you knew he was here, why didn't you leave him a pass?" I snarled. 

"I've only just found out. Where is he, Kate?"

"I don't know. Am I Jeremy's keeper?"

"As a matter of fact you just volunteered yourself his legal guardian when he checked himself out of the hospital into your custody. I've had Eric on the phone every twenty minutes today."

"I left him with some friends of his backstage," I stuttered. "Do you want me to go back and get him?"

"I'll go. You find the bus, and go and get ready for the gig," she directed. "You've been bumped up to the Main Stage. Apparently, there was such a huge demand to see The Charms that the organisers were worried that the second stage was too small for you!"

I stared at her, barely comprehending. Caught up in the hectic rush, I'd barely had time to worry about the gig. 

"You're going to be playing earlier in the day, but the field is already packed. It's fantastic exposure," she gushed, then paused, looking backwards towards the stage. "But you're onstage soon! I was about to send out the search party if you hadn't turned up."

"Shit," I stuttered, trying to comprehend it all. "I haven't even showered today..."

"Then go now! Go, go, go, go, go!" Amy urged.

I hadn't showered; I'd barely slept - at least the afternoon sun gave me an excuse to cover my dark-rimmed eyes with Jeremy's wraparound shades. I found my way back to the bus, grabbed some things, then rushed backstage to join my band at their cabin. They were at fever pitch excitement about our promotion to the Main Stage, but I could not bring myself to share their enthusiasm. The burst of energy that had got me this far had faded, leaving me exhausted and drained. Putting my face in my hands, I laid my head down on the table and moaned softly.

Something brightly coloured caught my attention, inches from my face. "Try this - it always gives me energy," stuttered a terribly familiar voice.

"Oh god, no more drugs," I sighed without even looking up. "I've just had enough of drugs to last me a fucking lifetime!"

"No, no, no," assured the panicked voice. I looked up to see Graham tentatively extending a Pixie Stick towards me. As soon as he saw me watching him, he coughed nervously and averted his gaze. "It's a sugar high - completely natural."

"Erm... thanks..."

"Take more if you like. I have plenty," he offered, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If I share them, it'll keep me from scoffing the lot, and I can't do that again cause then I'll get all excited and then I don't sleep."

It was probably the most words he'd ever said to me consecutively. I laughed softly, not sure if he intended it as a joke, but he smiled and shuffled his feet. "I could stand with a bit of hyperactivity myself at this point. Give 'em here."

As soon as the sugar hit my empty stomach, I felt some reserve of energy kick in. By the time the band got onstage, I was flying, leaping about like a maniac, stopping every few songs to eat another one. I could see Graham and Damon watching from the side of the stage, nodding their heads in time to the music and stopping to whisper to each other, but Alex was nowhere in sight. I was going mad, bouncing off the monitor speakers, throwing fake kung-fu kicks at Beth between songs until she turned around and gaped at me.

"Whatever Kate is on, I want some after the show," she intoned with mock wide-eyed wonder.

But the buzz wore off too quickly, and I was ready to pass out as I padded down off the stage. Even the exhilaration of the post-gig adrenaline rush was no longer enough to help a body pushed to the limits by months of sleep deprivation. "More!" I demanded impatiently, accosting a terrified Graham.

"Ooh, err..." he stuttered nervously. "I gave most of them out already. I've barely got enough to get through our set. You're hanging around, right?"

"Of course..." I started, but suddenly, Jeremy appeared out of nowhere, hovering at my side possessively.

"Amy says we have to get to Leeds for the show tomorrow," he insisted with a little more obedience than was plausible.

"So stay the night. We'll be in Leeds tomorrow, as well, you know. We could give you a lift if need be," offered Damon.

"But Alex is... oops!" began Graham, then rapidly stopped, his mouth open in a perfectly round O as he realised he had just said something he shouldn't have.

"To hell with Alex!" I snarled. "The man does not run my life!" I didn't particularly wish to be around him, either, but now it was an issue of honour; I had to prove that I was in no way affected by him either way. "I'll stay and watch your set."

Reluctantly, Jeremy followed us over to the table in the VIP area that Slur had staked out earlier, but he seemed somewhat reassured once he realised Alex had disappeared. Doing my best to ignore the entire situation, I swallowed pint after pint of lukewarm beer, slowly finding myself slipping into a strange conversation with Graham. He wanted to discuss his impressions of touring America, but the subject only made me homesick, and I found my attention wandering. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Alex, so I turned to catch him emptying the contents of a Pixie Stick into a plastic bag. Noticing me watching him, he placed his finger to his lips and hissed "Shhhhh!" With exaggerated stage motions, he tip-toed over to Jeremy, surreptitiously pressed the baggie into his hand and tip-toed away again, holding his hand over his mouth, barely able to contain his laughter. I shot Alex a nasty glare, then turned back to Graham.

A minute later, we were interrupted by a yelp and a crash. I turned to see Jeremy, collapsed on the floor, twitching slightly, blood pouring from his nose. "Jesus Christ, Alex, what did you do to him?" I exploded, falling to my knees to pull Jeremy's hand away from his face, trying to stop the flow of blood.

Alex was doubled over, cackling with laughter. "I can't believe he actually fell for it! What a knob! He actually tried to snort a Pixie Stick!"

"Alex, it's not funny!" I screamed, trying to pinch Jeremy's nose shut at the bridge. He sneezed miserably, coughed up a mouthful of sugar and moaned. "Now run and get some ice! _Now_! Somebody call the paramedics..."

"No! No paramedics!" insisted Jeremy doggedly, between deep hacking coughs.

Somebody handed me ice, wrapped in a towel, and I pressed it to Jeremy's face, pulling up the chair for him to rest his legs on. "Now lie still and be quiet." Standing up, I whirled around and fixed Alex with a furious stare. "Stop laughing. This is serious, you know!"

Smiling contritely, Alex tried to stifle his mirth, though he was obviously very stoned himself. "I'm sorry, really I am, Kate. It was meant as a joke. How was I supposed to know he'd actually try to..." his words dissolved in another gale of giggles.

"It's not me you should be apologising to," I hissed, shouldering my way past him. "I have nothing more to say to you." Ignoring him, I padded back to Jeremy and replaced the ice in the towel. The bleeding had slowed considerably, and his face was returning to its normal colour. "And as for you... you should know better than to just take shit any damn fool gives you!" He nodded feebly, then tried to sit up. "No, stay were you are."

"But... I need..." he lowered his voice. "Medication..."

"Again? God knows how much you've had already."

"I haven't, though. I need it, Kate." His voice was a thin, high-pitched whine of need. It was worse than looking after a child, trying to keep Jeremy out of trouble. He wanted to go back to the hotel; he wanted to stay at the festival. He wanted to walk around; he felt woozy and wanted to sit down. He wanted to eat; he felt sick and the smell of food nauseated him. Whenever he felt I wasn't paying him enough attention, he changed his mind and we had to do the opposite of whatever it was we'd set out to do. If I hadn't finally put my foot down and insisted that I had stayed to see Slur and I was going to see Slur with or without him, he would have been quite content to sit in the parking lot until they were ready to head back to the hotel.

But he was beginning to show the all too familiar signs of withdrawal, his eyes darting sluggishly about the crowd as he scratched lazily at his clammy skin. "Shit..." he grumbled. "Kate, can you lend me..."

"No, don't even ask." But try as I might to ignore or deny it, I could tell he was hurting. Finally I sighed, pressing the money Amy had given me into his hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this. Get what you have to. But don't disappear! If you're not back here by the time Slur's set is over, I'm leaving without you."

I felt like the biggest hypocrite on earth, condemning his drug abuse one moment, then turning around and giving him money the next. Or was it selfishness? Was I not so much buying heroin for Jeremy as an hour or two's peace for myself? As soon as he had the money, he shuffled off as fast as his skinny limbs would take him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. For the first time all day, I was able to watch from the side of the stage without being bothered or interrupted. 

When Alex noticed me, he flashed a cautious smile, cocking his head to one side with a questioning expression that seemed to ask 'Are you still angry at me?' I smiled, but nodded, knitting my eyebrows together. 'Yes, furious.' He wandered up to the edge of the stage, stood there for a few moments, then flipped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and turned back to me with the 'Aren't I clever?' expression. I shrugged smugly and shook my head. 'No, you're being a buffoon again.'

A headstrong emotion swept over me - For an inexplicably selfish moment, I didn't care if Jeremy ever came back or not. Whatever happened to him, it didn't matter, so long as I got to share these moments with Alex. The two of us, totally alone in a crowd of thousands, locked in some unspoken communication.

An unannounced presence at my shoulder warned me I had spoken too soon. "Kate..."

I sighed, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes without even turning around. "What?"

As soon as he saw Jeremy, Alex glowered at him with an almost palpable hatred, shattering the perfectly attuned mood. I tried hopelessly to catch his eye, but he was avoiding even looking at me now, deliberately turning his back on me to wander up to the edge of the stage, swinging his hips back and forth in time to the music to make the teeny boppers shriek. Dragging my eyes away from him, I turned back to Jeremy, fixing him with a wounded but defiant glare.

"Kate..." he repeated.

"I'm watching the band." I insisted.

"No, you're watching Alex," he snarled, and stalked off again.

Doing my best to ignore him, I turned back to the stage, but the moment was gone. Alex had wrapped his untouchable arrogant stage persona about him like a coat of armour. The set of his jaw, the ennui glazed across his eyes like a mask - I wanted to run up to him and smash it, to beat my fists against him and make him be real. At that moment, I wanted someone, anyone, to just put their arms around me and tell me that everything was alright, but Jeremy was off somewhere shooting my pocket money into his veins and Alex was pretending that I meant nothing to him. 

Who knows, maybe I didn't. Bending over the side of the stage, I saw him exchanging smiles with a pretty girl, crushed up against the barricade. Torn between wanting to simply storm off with my pride bruised but intact, and my fear of being stranded in deepest Berkshire, I stayed, my eyes firmly locked on Damon as he skipped about the stage, momentarily stopping moving only to stand on his head.

When they finished their set, Alex did not even acknowledge my presence. Moving over to whisper to a roadie, he gestured lazily towards the girl in the front row, then delved into the backstage ice chest for about his tenth lager of the evening. The roadie dropped down into the photographers pit, ambled over to the girl, and smoothly thrust a pass into her hand. Fucking rock star, I thought to myself as she turned and pushed her way out of the crowd, her face shining with outright adulation. But then, who was I to point fingers? Hadn't Amy and I jokingly enacted the same scenario in Germany?

She was waiting, anxiously collecting autographs from everyone in sight, when they got offstage. When she proffered her concert programme to me, I flinched momentarily, then shrugged and signed. My anger was nothing to do with her; it wasn't fair to take it out on her. Biding his time, Alex toyed with another beer, downing it in two gulps, then casually ambled over to her, flashing that wide, toothy grin. From where I was standing, I could only make out bits and pieces of their conversation, but the actual topic seemed immaterial as he steered her in the direction of the tourbus.

Desperately casting my eye around for Jeremy, I wanted only to leave as soon as possible, but the only friendly face in sight was Graham, as he stopped to sign autographs for a gaggle of kids. He watched Alex for a second, then shot me a pitiful expression, almost in consolation. After stopping to make sure he'd talked to every one of the teenagers, he shuffled over and tentatively prodded my elbow.

"Shall we head back to the bus?" he ventured.

"I'm still worried about Jeremy..."

Graham craned his neck back and forth, searching the backstage area, then observed "I don't see him. Do you think he'd go out to the field?"

"I think that's exactly where he is," I sighed.

"Erm... should we perhaps look for him?" suggested Graham, heading towards the security gate.

For a second, annoyance flickered across my face, then I shook my head with a wicked smirk. "One can only look for Jeremy for so long..."

Graham shifted awkwardly, but then realised I was teasing him, and made a face, about to say something rude about Alex, but we were interrupted by a cry from the gate. "Graham..!" called a flustered female voice, and we turned to see a young woman clinging to the wire of the chain link fence.

"Yes..." he stuttered, obediently trotting over to her.

"Can you please help me? My little sister's gone off with Alex - I can't go home without her... I'm worried about her..." Graham darted a quick, nervous look at her, then glanced back towards the backstage area and shook his head. "She's about this tall, long blond hair, wearing a rib stripe tank top..."

I nodded. "She's with Alex," I observed as dispassionately as I could, but my voice hovered at the edge of a growl.

"Oh, damn," she swore. "I can't go home without her."

"Won't she find her way home by herself?" suggested Graham in a concerned voice.

"She can't drive; she's only 15..." she sighed, shaking her head dejectedly. "Cripes... Our mum's going to kill her... And me! I'm supposed to be the responsible one."

"Oh my god." Graham blanched. For a minute, he paced back and forth as if deciding on a course of action, then pushed his pass through the fence. "Come on. Oh god..." he started to mutter something to himself rather angrily as the sister joined us and we headed back towards the bus. "Where's Alex?" he demanded as soon as he saw Damon.

"Dunno," shrugged Damon, audibly plastered. "He's not on the bus. I think he got a taxi back to the hotel."

"Was that girl with him?"

He nodded. "Think so. Oh, and your Jeremy turned up," he sniggered. "At least there's a Jeremy-shaped object passed out in the back of the bus."

"We've got to get back to the hotel," Graham insisted, fussing like a mother hen, but his young charge was staring, utterly in awe of Damon, the tour bus and the entire situation, the gravity of her sister's predicament totally forgotten. "Come on..."

Graham did not stop fretting until we were at the hotel. As soon as we walked in the door, we were surrounded by fans. Damon rolled his eyes and made a bee-line for the elevator bank, but Graham stopped to explain that he would be down again soon. Climbing down out of the bus, Jeremy blinked against the lights of the lobby, bright after the gloom of the bus, as if failing to comprehend where we were or why we were here.

"Jeremy, here, take my backpack. My credit cards are in the in the little paisley purse. Can you book us a room?" I pleaded, then trotted to catch up with Graham as he headed for the elevators.

Still mumbling to himself, he shuffled down the hallway to Alex's room and pounded on the door. "Alex, I know you're in there!"

There was the sound of a thud, then muffled giggles, then footsteps from inside, growing closer. Slowly the door swung open, revealing Alex hurriedly pulling on his shirt. Even from a few paces away, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Graham..."

Ignoring him, Graham burst in past him, addressing the nervously giggling girl perched on a corner of the bed. "You. Get out!"

"But, but, but..." she protested lamely.

"Your sister is going mad with worry looking for you! What is your mother going to say?" demanded Graham.

For a moment, she looked back and forth between Alex and Graham, her lip quivering, then spat "I hate you!" at Graham and ran from the room, mortified.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" snarled Alex, whirling back to face Graham.

"Alex, she's only 15!" he exploded. "What the hell were you thinking? You could have been arrested for even contemplating touching her!"

Alex paled slightly, then turned as if noticing me standing in the doorway for the first time. For a moment, something that resembled embarrassment flickered across his face, but he turned away to take a swig of a bottle of beer. Without a word, he seized his jacket off the back of a chair and headed for the door, pausing only to fix me with an utterly livid glower as he pushed his way past me.

With a deep sigh, I shook my head, shot an apologetic glance at Graham then headed out to the corridor, only to find that Alex had disappeared. "Are you alright?" Graham ventured. He was studying me carefully, his dark eyes clouded with concern, but as soon as I met his gaze, he looked away nervously.

"I'll be fine - I need to find Jeremy. As usual..."

"Well... if you need anything... erm... just ask, OK?" he offered.

Returning to the lobby, I searched for Jeremy to no avail. Accosting Damon, I asked if he'd seen him, to which Damon raised one eyebrow. "Yeah - he was asking where you'd gone. I told him you'd gone to rescue Alex. He didn't seem too pleased about that..." 

"Oh fuck..." I ejected, and headed over to the front desk. With a bit of convincing, I managed to convince them to tell me which room he'd booked himself into, but when I tried to call up to the room, the line was engaged. "Well, at least that means he's there," I sighed, heading back up in the elevator yet again. Knocking softly on the door, I waited for an answer, but there was no sound from inside. After about a minute, I knocked a little harder and called out softly. "Jeremy? I know you're there. Let me in!" When there was still no reply, I pounded as hard as I dared risk without disturbing the other guests on the floor. "Jeremy, come on!" Trying the door handle, I shook it lightly, but it was firmly locked.

As I turned around, I leaned my head against the door, examining my options. Was Jeremy sulking over some imagined problem with Alex, or was he passed out insensate from some chemical cocktail? I considered asking the staff to let me in, then baulked at the idea of what they might find inside. This was not tolerant Amsterdam - I didn't want to risk another scene. For a moment, I guiltily wondered if Jeremy was even alive, then pushed those thoughts out of my mind. Whatever Jeremy had done, he'd done it to himself and I wanted none of it. Padding back down the hall, I resolved to book myself my own room and deal with him in the morning.

But when I returned to front desk, I realised that I had given the last of my money to Jeremy. Even my credit cards were in the bag that Jeremy had taken with him. "Can you try the room again?" I pleaded, but there was still no reply. 

Casting my gaze about the room, the only familiar face I saw was Graham, saying his last good-byes to the few kids left milling around the hotel lobby. "Erm... well, goodbye... thanks for the, erm, presents... and erm... drive straight, and don't crash..." He started to head back to the elevators, but stopped when he saw me, waving hurriedly. "Alright?" he ventured, obviously concerned, but still afraid to look me in the eye.

"Oh, god, no... Jeremy's convinced that I'm sleeping with Alex, and locked me out of our room. Either that or he's OD'd on some shit again," I sighed, putting my hands to my head and trying to rub the tension out of my temples.

Graham's gaze darted around nervously as he played with his room keys. "Ooh, erm... my room is a double, you know. If you need a place to stay... well, I mean, if you don't mind sharing... oh dear, I mean I hope you don't think I'm... trying to... but if you need to..." His voice, soft enough under normal circumstances trailed away to nothing with embarrassment.

I stared at him cautiously, trying to gauge his intentions, then decided, after everything that had transpired, that I trusted him. "Right now, I would really appreciate that."

"If you want anything, you can order it from room service, if you like," he offered, gesturing to the phone as we walked into his spacious room. True to his word, there were two enormous double beds awaiting us.

"Would you mind if I ordered some herbal tea?" I ventured.

"No... erm... go ahead. In fact, I think I'd like some, too," he added, pulling off his shoes, but climbing into the nearer of the two beds fully clothed. I dialled the number and ordered a pot of camomile tea, then sat down on the bed opposite him, but he showed no sign of sleeping, fiddling nervously with a toy that one of his fans had given him. "Are you alright?" he finally asked for about the tenth time.

"You've asked me that a dozen times already," I laughed.

"Sorry," he stammered awkwardly. "I just know that whenever I used to fight with... with my girlfriend, I felt like hell until we sorted it out. I'd get sick to my stomach with worry, couldn't sleep..." He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Oh, that'll be our tea, then..." When he returned, he poured two cups of camomile tea, handed me one and settled back into his bed. "Drink your tea - it'll make you feel better. In the morning, you can talk to Jeremy and sort it all out. I'll tell him exactly what happened, if you like," he advised, nodding his head wisely.

"Jeremy? I'm not even sure I want to sort things out with Jeremy!" I snorted, then caught myself before I could start spouting my frustration on an unsuspecting ear. "It's funny, though," I observed, trying to change the subject. "I spent weeks on tour with you, but I think this is the longest time I've ever actually spent with you."

Graham chuckled into his teacup. "Well, that's cause you spent the entire tour closeted up with Alex." He enunciated his name with a strange accent on the first syllable and a knowing glance over the top of his glasses.

I grumbled defensively, blowing on my tea to cool it. "Look, I don't know what you're insinuating, but nothing has ever happened between Alex and I and I'm getting really sick of having to explain that!"

"Oh, no no no no no..." Graham apologised, tripping over his own tongue in his embarrassment. "I wasn't insinuating that..." His voice trailed away to nothing again, and we sat in silence for a few minutes until he added softly. "Really? _Nothing_?" 

I shook my head distractedly, turning away from him. "Nothing!"

"But what about the Viper Room. I could have sworn I saw you..."

"That was as far as it ever got," I whined, trying unsuccessfully not to let the disappointment show in my voice.

"Oh." He nodded his head, a knowing smile spreading slowly over his face as if fitting together the pieces of a puzzle for the first time. "Oh, well, that explains a lot, doesn't it?" he mused.

"Meaning what?" I demanded.

"Oh, nothing..." he mumbled, placing his hand over his mouth but raising his eyebrow as if trying to physically contain a secret. "Just Alex being Alex again."

"You know, he's not always like that," I replied, leaping to his defence. "All that Alex being Alex is just a defence - you think he's being unbearably arrogant, but half the time, he's just mocking himself. He does it as much to make people not take themselves too seriously as to intimidate people." After everything that had happened, I couldn't believe I was actually defending him.

Graham was shaking with silent laughter, a cascade of giggles escaping over his hand. "You don't have to explain Alex to me, you know. I have known him for nearly ten years. We went to art school together when we were barely out of our teens!"

"I know," I chuckled. "I've seen photos."

"He did not show you those..." Graham gasped indignantly.

I laughed, nodding. "Yes he did."

"He didn't! That floppy brown haired cunt!" exploded Graham, but in playful fun, more than actual irritation. Shaking his head, he chewed thoughtfully on a hangnail. "Being friends with Alex is like having an annoying little brother who insists on tagging along all of the time and ends up making a huge mess of things that I get blamed for and I have to clean up. And the little snot never gets in trouble for anything - no, everybody just loves him, cause he's so damn adorably annoyingly _cute_." Despite the staccato spite of this rant, his eyes belied an understated affection.

Unable to help myself, I burst out laughing. "You really are like two little kids, aren't you? I've already had the other half of this conversation!"

Graham paused in contemplation for a moment, letting this sink in, then jealously demanded. "And what did Alex say about me?"

"Exactly the same thing! That you're like an annoying elder brother who doesn't take him seriously and never lets him do anything, cause you're the musical genius and he's only there to be cute window dressing."

"He called me a musical genius?" Graham interrupted. "Damn, he never says that when I'm in the room." Pulling a cross-eyed face, he gave the v-sign to the wall that divided his room from Alex's.

Staring at the wall, I suddenly remembered Alex's face as he had pushed past me into the hallway and wondered why I was bothering to protect Alex's reputation. "I really don't feel like talking about him any more at this point."

"But it's so fun to gossip about him when he isn't here," sniggered Graham. "He practically begs for it."

Shifting uncomfortably, I played with the tape cassettes on the night stand and tried to change the subject. "Do you have a stereo in here or anything?"

"I've got the little, erm, speaker thingeys you can hook up to a walkman." Digging in his record bag, he pulled out a cassette player and more tapes. "Play anything you like."

I picked up the tapes one at a time, examining them and casually chucking back the ones I didn't like. "Jazz-wank piano compilation, yuck. Amerindie pseudo-intellectual art-wank. No thank you..."

Graham sniggered madly, rescuing the tapes I had spurned and tucking them back into his bag. "Yes, Alex."

I fixed him with a displeased eye and resumed my search. "Actually, I taught him that one. It's what I used to tease Emma with whenever she'd try to make me listen to Polvo or Slint or the Archers of Wank or whathaveyou." I sat in silence for a moment, then the next tape caught my attention. "Oh, wow... I remember taping this off the radio the week it came out - the local college radio station played the advance copy in its entirety. For years I thought that little crackle was radio interference. It wasn't until I bought the CD that I realised it was part of the music..."

I flipped the tape into the player and a familiar fractured guitar line spilled into the air mid-song.

 

_Come back to me awhile..._

_I got a Catholic Block, it fits around my head_   
_I got a Catholic Block, and it's blood orange red_   
_I got a Catholic Block, do you like to fuck?_   
_I got a Catholic Block, I guess I'm out of luck..._

 

Singing along softly, I found myself caught up in the steady crescendo of the guitar as it built towards the end of the song, a tiny noise spinning off like a shard of glass thrown from a car crash, glinting in the sun for a moment, arching into the ether of climax as the song wound down and faded out. I didn't even realise that I'd been playing air guitar until I was interrupted by a cackle from the opposite bed.

"Alex hates Sonic Youth. Did you pick this album on purpose?" Graham suggested with an evil leer.

I shook my head innocently and turned it up, glancing back at the wall that adjoined Alex's room. "I may love Alex more than life itself, but the boy has terrible taste in music," I sighed. Abruptly, I stopped, embarrassed, my eyes wide with horror. It had slipped out so casually, almost as a joke, but I realised it was the first time I'd ever admitted it to anyone.

"That he does," agreed Graham. "This is a boy who listened to nothing but Joy Division and the Violent Femmes in art school, but now he actually owns Kylie Minogue albums..." He was about to go on, but caught himself as if noticing my discomfort, a concerned look spreading over his face. "Oh. Oh dear. You really do, don't you?" For someone as socially awkward as he was, he was unusually emotionally perceptive.

My horror turned to panic. "Promise you won't tell him! You've got to promise me you won't tell a soul!"

He joggled nervously, fidgeting with the tape cover. The music had changed, as tense as the atmosphere.

 

_Just get in the car_   
_let's go for a ride somewhere_   
_I won't hurt you_   
_You make me feel so crazy_

 

"But..." He opened the cover and closed it again, practically yanking it off its hinge. "Erm... you see, god..." Open. Close. Whatever it was, he was having a devil of time wrestling with himself whether to tell me. "You see, I _know_ Alex," he finally squeezed out in a cryptically important hushed tone.

"Yeah, and you know how he'd react. God, I can just see that little smug, self assured expression and the way it just snaps down over his face like a mask whenever anyone starts to get too close. It's almost like... like he expects it, that spoiled brat..." I grasped for words, unable to quite articulate what I was trying to express. "At same time, while he's got this, this exterior veneer of arrogance to protect him from ever having to express his real feelings, underneath, he's just so self conscious and awkward... so..."

"Otherwise. That's what we used to call it," Graham supplied.

"It's like he doesn't quite believe it - he thinks that any sort of, you know - adulation or even appreciation has to necessarily be, well, phoney, for lack of a better word. He just doesn't believe it; can't believe it. That's why he always insults everyone - it's like _that's_ genuine - that's almost a form of affection for him."

Graham smiled wryly. "Stop it. You're almost making me start to like the poor bugger again."

"You do like him. Admit it."

"He just... he gets under my skin. It's the same as in a real family. Someone else could say something, and it wouldn't affect you at all, but because it's _them_ saying it, it's not just what they're saying, but ten years of built up hostilities." He managed to stop himself before he started on another tirade, smiling sideways at me apologetically. The tape droned to an end and clicked off. Had we really been talking for nearly an hour? "Go to sleep. Talk to Alex in the morning, then."

Actually, the camomile was already working its soothing magic, making me drowsy and complacent. As I slid down into the crisp and cool linen sheets, I realised how tired I was, my eyelids drooping with days of accumulated stress and exhaustion. "Promise me you won't tell him..."

"I promise," he sighed, switching off the light.

"Good night," I sighed, closing my eyes and drifting off.

For a minutes, there was silence, then from out of the soft darkness, his voice whispered. "So you _do_ want to... _you know_... with Alex?"

" _Graham_!" I gasped indignantly.

"He wants to. With you. Quite badly, I think," he mumbled, just below the threshold of hearing.

"What?" I sat bolt upright.

He merely giggled madly, then I heard the rustle of sheets as he turned over. "Good night."

I was woken by the insistent ringing of the telephone, but to my relief someone else answered. "Hullo... yeah, yeah, I'm awake. I'm ready..." Rolling over, I pulled the covers back over my head and slipped back into sleep. "Kate, Kate..." Graham was poking me gingerly in the shoulder, prodding me back to consciousness. "Kate, you have to wake up. You have to get up now if you want a shower before we leave..." 

Somehow, I managed to roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. My stomach was reeling, but it was becoming a familiar feeling, more like an old friend than a hangover. After a few minutes soaking in the warm water, I felt almost like a human being again. When I returned to the bedroom, Graham was already dressed and packed, nervously pacing about the room, checking to make sure he hadn't left anything behind.

"Ready to go?" he asked impatiently, tapping his watch. 

I nodded. "Are you always this charming in the morning?"

"We're running late," he told me crossly.

"Apparently not that late," I informed him, seeing other members of the crew milling around the hallway. Graham grumbled and locked the door, fumbling with his keys. Behind him, I could hear the door of the room next to his open and shut. Alex. My face burned as I heard a woman's laugh, but I kept my back to him, refusing to turn around, refusing to even acknowledge his presence.

"Woo-hoo, well, Graham, you dirty dog!" hooted Alex. "Who's the bird? Don't worry; I won't tell your missus..."

I turned around just in time to hear Graham let out a strangled cry as he threw his duffel bag down onto the floor and launched himself at Alex, his fists flailing. "You fucking bastard..."

Alex stumbled, too surprised to fight back at first, then managed to push Graham away, holding him at arms length. Doors were opening up and down the hall, as people came out and stared, drawn by the commotion. Out of nowhere, Roger barrelled down on them, pulling them apart and physically separating them.

Damon sighed, rolling his eyes and glaring at Alex. "Just get them on the bus... What the hell was that about?"

Graham shifted uneasily, chewed on his fingernails and muttered something about Alex.

"What?" protested Alex. "He started it!" Looking around for sympathy, his eyes fell on me, and suddenly realised that it had been me he saw coming out of Graham's room. "Oh, Jesus... with _Graham_?" He didn't have to say another word - the mixture of disgust and jealousy in his eyes spoke volumes.

"I didn't!" I protested lamely.

"No, actually we spent the entire night talking about _you_ , you stupid, thick, bass-playing cunt!" Graham hissed, pushing his glasses back onto his ears where they'd come loose in the altercation.

Alex paused, looking back and forth between Graham and I with a foolish expression on his face. "Oh." Picking his bag off the floor, he slunk away as quickly as his long legs would carry him.

"Where's Jeremy?" I sighed. "Has anyone seen him?" Walking down the hall, I pounded on his door angrily. "Jeremy, if you don't open this door in the next minute and a half, we're leaving without you!"

"He's already gone downstairs," Damon called back, eyeing me with a new sense of suspicion. "Come on - we've got to get to Leeds. I would have thought you'd be anxious to go. You're playing earlier than we are."

Demurely, I followed him without complaining, slumping up against the wall in the elevator, trying to stay out of his way. As I climbed onto the bus, I passed first Alex, doing his best to avoid meeting my eyes, staring out the window, then Jeremy, slouched in his seat, staring up at me inquisitively. Damn; this was going to be the longest bus ride I had ever endured. Ignoring them both, I padded further back, heading for a seat by myself.

But as soon as I sat down, Jeremy shuffled over and flopped down next to me, blinking slowly as he observed me with that reptilian junkie stare. For a minute, I met his gaze, staring back at him resentfully, then turned back to the window.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he ventured in his most pathetic little boy tone. When I did not reply, he reached over and attempted to tickle me playfully.

"Don't even fucking touch me!" I exploded.

"What?" he sighed in a hurt tone.

"Right now I am so angry I don't even want to see you, let alone speak to you!" I snarled.

"What have you got to be angry about? After all, you're the one that spent the night with Alex Jones," he whined accusatorily.

"For a start, I was not with Alex last night, but as of this morning, that no longer matters. As of now, it is no longer any of your fucking business where or with who I spend the night. We're through, Jeremy!"

Jeremy shook his strawberry streaked bangs in solid denial. "You don't mean that." Suddenly, he was sweetness incarnate, rubbing up against my arm and fixing me with his clear blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Gord... I must have passed out and not heard you knocking..."

"You are such a liar!" I hissed. "A moment ago, you said I was with Alex Jones all night. If that's where I was, how could you know I was knocking at the door? And why did you leave the phone off the hook?"

Jeremy squirmed slightly, but said nothing, smiling up at me as if merely the sight of those sky blue eyes could atone for any transgression. Abruptly standing up, I shouldered my way past him and headed up the aisle looking for another place to sit, but now the bus had filled up, the only free seat was the one next to Alex. Looking back and forth between Jeremy and Alex, I felt the sudden sensation of a trapped animal. The devil or the deep blue sea? Jeremy was smiling up at me with the blissfully oblivious expression of a man lost in a sea of heroin. Slumped in his seat, Alex tried to bury himself in his book, shaking his head so that his hair covered his eyes, protecting him from having to acknowledge anyone else's presence. Taking a quick breath, I flung myself back down next to the deep blue sea.

Deflecting all Jeremy's attempts at conversation with stony silence, I seethed quietly, staring out the window as the scenery of the midlands slid by in a greenish grey haze, wishing that I had had the foresight to bring a book. Maddie and I had always made sure that the Charms bus was stocked with an adequate supply of novels, but how was I to know I was going to be stuck here for several hours, trapped in a minefield of men I'd once thought I could love?

I leaned my head against the window, hoping the vibration of the bus would not exacerbate the pounding ache I was developing in my temples. Closing my eyes, I shrugged Jeremy's arm off my shoulders and feigned sleep, though my thoughts paced the cage of my skull like an unhappy circus animal.

Why I had I been so blind as to let myself get caught up in this senseless relationship with Jeremy? We were too different people to ever have any sort of long-term hope; that had been obvious from the start. How could I have been so blinded by the flattery? How could I have let my vanity and my libido overcome what little common sense I occasionally demonstrated? What had I been thinking, getting involved with him? It had been going on so long now that it seemed practically impossible to stop. I had been emotionally blackmailed into taking him back so many times that he no longer even believed me when I said we were through.

As I opened my eyes a slit, I saw the top of Alex's head over the back of his seat, his dark brown hair sticking out at odd angles between his fingers. He always did that when he was upset, I couldn't help but note. If he wasn't smoking, he would twist his fingers in his hair, his palm against his temple, elbow resting on the nearest flat surface, bent over double, curled up in a ball in protection against the world.

Dragging my gaze away, I clenched my eyes shut, silently reprimanding myself for even thinking about him. This is how the whole thing started, I reminded myself, suddenly overcome by a maelstrom of conflicting memories, provoked by being back on Slur's tourbus. The image of Alex's neck, his body pressed close against mine, his lips searching for mine sprung unbidden into my mind. How fucking stupid had I been? I'd thrown myself fresh from the rebound of those emotionally intense two weeks and their ultimate denial to the next available option, the mere shell of a man sprawled out next to me in the near comatose state of the nodding junky.

Well, now what? Opening my eyes, I stared off into the window, only to catch the reflection of Alex in the tinted glass. Rather than being buried in his book, his eyes were focused on my reflection, his brows contorted down into a glower of almost palpable animosity. As soon as he realised I saw him, he slowly dragged his eyes back to his book, his features slowly twisting into that familiar mask of disdain.

Fuck you, Alex Jones. Just fuck you! I mouthed to the back of his headrest, leaning my head back and staring up at the ceiling of the bus, counting the rows of dots in the plastic of the walls, counting the telephone poles between towns, reciting the elements of the periodic table as far as I could remember them, wishing I'd bothered to learn the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner to recite to myself at times like these... in short, anything except think about anything even remotely related to my situation. Sleep deprivation was catching up with me, my brain in revolt, but I was too agitated to even think of sleep.


	15. Today We Escape, We Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Kate's life falls down about her ears in ruins, all her men - Tristram and Alex fighting among themselves - she finally works up the courage to leave Jeremy, for good this time. But he has his final revenge.
> 
> Warning: may contain Bards.

When the bus finally pulled into Leeds, I barely waited until we were in the parking lot before I grabbed my bag from under Jeremy's feet and headed for the door. Before we'd even stopped moving, I was free, running across the tarmac without even stopping to think of my destination. Slowing down only long enough to flash my laminate at a security guard, I didn't stop my wild flight until I forcibly collided with someone.

"Watch out, there!" exclaimed a surprised but noticeably stoned voice as long arms reached out and prevented me from rebounding and crashing into a small group of people gathered around their bus. "Whoa! Someone's let the whiz bang fizz vibe get to their head a bit. Calm down, chill out a bit."

"Leave me alone!" I protested, my voice threatening to dissolve into sobs at any moment as I struggled to free myself from his grasp.

"You alright, lover?" The face peering into mine with deep concern seemed terribly familiar, attached to long brown hair and dirty velvet clothes. "You seem distressed, maybe you should sit down, have a nice cup of tea and talk to our Bard. We never make any hasty decisions without consulting our Bard, she's very wise."

"I don't need a fucking Bard," I protested. "I need to find my friends."

"We're all friends here, my lady," he insisted, bowing slightly, though he did not loose his grip on my arm. "We are psychedelic knights, at your service..."

That phrase sounded so familiar, disturbingly familiar, but it wasn't until a blond figure ambled over, asking "What's going on, Bevan?" that I finally placed it. 

I sighed and screwed my face up in disbelief. This had to be a nightmare; I'd blink and I'd wake up. "God, not you! Anyone but you," I babbled incoherently. 

Tristram rolled his eyes long sufferingly and gave me the sort of compassionate look a mother superior gives an unhappy schoolgirl. For a moment, that spark of friendly antagonism flashed in his eyes as if he was contemplating the perfect comeback, but he merely shook his head and sighed. "I've never believed in coincidence," he muttered mysteriously, his eyes boring into mine as if searching for some secret significance. "Nothing happens for no reason."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You only ever seem to find me when you're having some problem with your love life. So who is it now? Jeremy? Alex?"

Unable to hold back any more, I practically exploded in spite. "Just leave me alone. I've never asked anything from you."

His bandmate withdrew, shooting Tristram an arched eyebrow as he walked past. The whole entourage was staring now. Dazed and distracted, I stared urgently around the circle of faces turned expectantly towards me, looking for some hint of compassion, but the strangers stared at me.

An older woman with long, white hair, dressed in strange, sky blue robes, stood up. She had initially started, shocked, when she saw me, but then she put her hand to her throat and walked towards me. "It's alright, trust me. I'm a Bard. You're safe 'ere. Is there anything the matter, my 'ansome?" she asked in a motherly West Country tone. I was surrounded by dirty hippies playing dress-up in the middle of a field, nothing would surprise me any more.

"I'm fine," I assured her, the blanket response that I had learned to trot out, no matter how distinctly _not_ -fine I felt. "Are you alright? Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"

"I'm sorry, m'lover, it's just startlin' how much'ee look like Annie." Without provocation, almost in impulse, she reached out and laid the flat of her hand across the slightly convex curve of my belly. 

"What?" I demanded, pushing her hand off me as if I'd been burned, my fuzzy mind failing to process the information, or, indeed, remember to ask who this Annie person I resembled had been.

Turning back to Tristram, she addressed him sternly. "Tristram, m'lover, the maid has something she needs tell you dreckly."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Tristram shook his head, eyeing her carefully, almost respectfully, then threaded his arm through mine. "Come on - let's go for a walk."

"I don't want to go anywhere with you," I spat.

"Yes you do," he assured me calmly. "We'll smoke a spliff, you'll tell me what a horrible patriarchal oppressor I am and I'll tell you what a horrible profligate wench you are and then we'll both feel smug and piously superior."

"Is that supposed to be some sort of a joke?"

"Yes. Proper job." He smiled wryly, looking up at me from under his pale blond fringe.

Silently, I followed him out past the fence, up a long, sloping hill behind the main stage. Settling down into the soft grass, I kicked off my shoes as he proceeded to roll a fat, overstuffed joint and lazily lit it, inhaling deeply then proffering it to me. For a moment I hesitated, looking back and forth between him and the smoking tip of the joint, then sighed, settled down beside him and raised it wordlessly to my lips. As I inhaled, the world shimmered slightly, regaining a slightly hazy glow. The tension drained from my body. Another hit and I felt rooted to the spot, connected to the earth, one with the softly scented leaves that brushed against my cheeks. No matter what else I might say about him, Tristram always managed to have the best drugs. A third breath and my sight was clouded with tiny swirling tendrils of grey green, my thoughts wandering and my body so relaxed as to be immobile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Tristram's voice from somewhere far off.

"No. You're still an oppressive patriarch, and there's some reason I dislike you, but I can't remember what it is right now," I murmured contentedly.

"And you're... well, there's some reason I'm not supposed to be lying down in long grass so near you, but it escapes me at present time," agreed Tristram, his eyes tiny blue slits in a contented face as he studied me. "God, Kate, you look like hell. You're skinny as a rail, pale as a ghost and look at those dark circles under your eyes..."

"Yeah, well, touring does wonders for your complexion, as well," I countered. For a moment, the old woman down at the festival sprang to my mind again. "Tris, who was Annie?"

Tristram sighed deeply and rolled over onto his back, his face unreadable. "Annie was... well, still is, my ex-wife."

Through the fuzz of the drug, the _wrongness_ of what this information signified filtered slowly down into my mind. So that was it. It wasn't my personality, or my accomplishments, or anything at all to really do with me that kept drawing Tristram back to me. Despite the fact that he hated me, could not stand everything that I believed in, he felt compelled to sleep with me _because I resembled the woman that broke his heart_. In a flash, albeit more a very slow, gradual stoned seeping understanding than an actual flash, I understood it all. All along, he'd been lecturing _me_ on morality, yet he was the one whose behaviour was so questionable.

If I had not been so exhausted and so stoned, I would have felt angry, would have felt bitter and cheapened and used, but the information chafed uselessly against a self esteem so callused by Jeremy's demands that I felt only numb.

And still, Tristram kissed me. As he leaned forward, his eyes closing, it seemed natural, almost instinctual that our lips met. For a liquid eternity, our mouths melded, merged, then parted. "Tris, no... we can't keep doing this," I sighed, trying to find some shred of willpower amidst the smoke rings of my mind. "Not now..."

Rather than protest, he shrugged. That light of animation, of... hope was shining again in his eyes. The dogged insistence of 'No, don't do this to yourself again' came too slowly to my conscious mind, and I heard my voice repeat it somewhat thickly. He stared at me, his fingertips still lightly touching my face, then shrugged, smiled placidly and slowly dropped them. "Come on - I have to get back and find my band before soundcheck..."

We loped slowly down the hill, holding hands as he giggled like a guilty schoolboy. I dangled my shoes in my spare hand, swinging my arms gently. With his fingers threaded through mine, and his eyes sparkling in the morning sun, I slowly forgot all awkwardness. In the sunshine, the oppressive sense of panic and confusion abated, and for a moment, it seemed like no harm in the world could touch me. The aureole of blond hair framed his face like a halo, lending an angelic serenity to the glow of his smile. With a laugh like the tinkle of bells, he caught me, pulling me into his arms and kissing me again.

"Stop it!" I hissed, pushing him away gently.

"Just once more... Please... No one will see," he replied insistently, pushing my hair out of my eyes to shower my forehead with tiny kisses.

As if in direct contradiction of his statement, I became aware of a dark figure walking towards us. "Kate? Is that you?" Black jeans, mustard coloured T-shirt, and a dark forelock of hair slowly formed into the familiar figure of Alex, striding towards us across the expanse of grass. "Your band is searching frantically for you. I came looking for you, but no one had seen you anywhere," he called out disapprovingly, then stopped when he caught sight of my companion. "Oh, hullo," he addressed suspiciously, in that very cold and very formal tone of voice that Alex reserved for people he deeply disliked.

Guiltily, I pulled away, dropping Tristram's hand as unobtrusively as possible. "Alex..." was all I managed to stutter out.

Refusing to be intimidated, Tristram wrapped his arm around my waist and stared at Alex challengingly, like a young stallion sizing up a potential rival.

For quite some time, Alex stared questioningly back and forth between the two of us, blinking slowly, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing, then slowly, a smug, priggish smile settled over his lips. "Jeremy, do you mind if I have a word with your girlfriend?"

Tristram bristled, but I placed my finger over his lips before he could react. "Alex, stop it! You know perfectly well what his name is!"

He gazed back at me with a curious mixture of wide-eyed innocence and shocked moral offence. "Oh," he gasped, covering his mouth with his hand as if he'd just committed some terrible faux pas. "So terribly sorry, erm..." he grasped for words, snapping his fingers as if he was having trouble remembering. I wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to run at him and hit him, clawing his self righteous eyes out.

"Tristram!" my companion snarled, tightening his grip around my waist.

"Tristram, would you mind terribly if we have a moment alone?" he inquired in the most clipped and patronising of tones.

"Yes, I mind very much..." began Tristram, but I cut him off.

"It's OK," I assured him. "I'll catch up with you."

Casting a spiteful look at Alex, Tristram made a grand gesture of kissing me quite openly and plainly on the mouth. This wasn't for my benefit, it was for Alex's - he wasn't even looking at me as he pulled away. As the more intoxicating effects of the drug cleared from my head, I realised that I didn't love him at all. In fact, at that moment, as he headed back down the hill with a sneer and a curt nod at Alex, I suddenly started to loathe him.

Turning back to Alex with all the penned up anger and frustration of the past few days, I cut loose with a ferocity that surprised even me. "What the hell was that about?" I demanded, my voice ragged with anger.

Alex whirled back to me with a spite that matched my own. "First Graham, and now, _him_? Is there anyone you haven't screwed, now? How the hell can you do this to Jeremy? Have you no feelings whatsoever?"

"I never touched Graham. And since when do you care so damn much about Jeremy?" I snapped back. "You've hated him since day one!"

"I don't give a shit about Jeremy. But how can you do this to..." He caught himself, then dropped his voice. "...to yourself?" His voice rasping with evident tension. I had never seen him this angry. "What about your fucking responsibilities? Your band doesn't know where you are, your boyfriend doesn't know where you are..."

"I don't need to explain myself to you! But since you're so concerned, Tristram had some pot, so we wandered off to talk."

"Pot?! Is that it?" exploded Alex, his voice cracking with fury. "Just a little toke? A little bit of spliffage? You wandered off with a complete stranger to get high? Have you totally lost your mind?"

"He's hardly a complete stranger."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot about your little indiscretion the last time he went sniffing around you on Top of the Pops," he sneered. "Top of the Knobs, more like."

That was the last straw. Forgetting any sense of propriety, I threw myself at Alex, flailing wildly at his face with my fists. "You fucking smug bastard! Who the hell are you to judge me?! I saw you putting your smooth moves on every starstruck fifteen year old that came within your reach last night! And what gives you the right to tell me what I can or can't do? You're not my husband, you're not my fucking father and you are not my fucking boyfriend..." I managed to cut myself off before I finished ... _no matter how much I wanted you to be_.

Alex tried to defend himself, grabbing at my arms, but I was too quick for him. "Because I don't want to get a phone call one day telling me you're in rehab, or in hospital, or dead! I've seen the way this industry chews people up and spits them out again! I don't want to see that happen to you." Grappling with me, he finally managed to catch my wrists, holding them in the air. "Because believe it or not, you self destructive little bitch, I actually care about you! Believe it or not, I actually happen to _love you_!"

The words just hung in the air. I stopped struggling, staring up at him with shocked disbelief. From the look in his eyes, I knew, this was not another arrogant lie, not an act for anyone's benefit. For an unfortunate moment, the truth had slipped out, and we were both left, alone on a hillside near Leeds, staring at this prematurely half-formed statement that had slipped from his lips. His fingers pressed into my wrists, reluctant to let go, though I had totally ceased struggling. Unintentionally crushed against his chest, I could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, blood pulsing through his veins, unbearably close. His incredibly deep brown eyes stared at me with vulnerable trepidation. Slowly, cautiously, almost afraid to breathe, I moved closer, raising myself up on my tip toes to press my lips against his. The sweet, almost musky scent of his hair filled my nostrils, the skin of his lips soft against mine as his mouth parted slightly. Sucking hungrily, I pulled his tongue into my mouth, nipping and teasing.

Suddenly he pulled away, dropping my hands as if he'd been released from a magic spell. "No! Stop!" he moaned, his face twisting somewhere between temptation and agony.

"What?" I asked softly, searching his eyes for explanation.

He was shaking, quivering, his eyes growing shiny as he fought back tears. "No, not like this. I don't want it like this."

"How do you want it, Alex? Just tell me, just say the word..." I begged, but he just shook his head, backing away from me. "Alex!" I screamed, throwing my shoes after him in impotent rage. No longer trying to fight the silvery tears streaming down his face, he turned away from me and ran, stretching out his long legs, streaking away from me. "Alex..." I called one last time but my voice was faint, giving out, and he showed no indication of having even heard me. 

Sinking down into the soft heather, I flopped back on the hillside, staring up at the unforgiving sky. I had never felt so utterly alone, soiled and slightly used, abandoned by everyone I had ever cared about, surrounded by broken shells whose only interest was to use me for what I could give them. Lost without a home or an anchor, I was drifting, carried along wherever the current chose to deposit me, with no more say in my destination than a piece of driftwood. Through all of it, the only person who had ever listened to me, who had ever cared about me without expecting anything in return, was running as fast as he could down that hill away from me. Utterly alone and utterly powerless, I lay down, turning my face to the earth and started to cry.

For a long time, I lay, crying out all the rage and the frustration into the sweet smelling English earth. For hours, perhaps minutes, perhaps days, I heaved one great silent sob after another, too tired to even make a sound. Even after my eyes were dry, burning with the salt, I lay staring without seeing at the plants around me. Slowly, with great effort, the green shapes distinguished themselves into leaves, stalks, flowers even, overripe and going to seed, exerting one last burst of energy in the late summer. Reaching out, I pulled the light purple blossom off its stalk and twisted it impetuously through my hair. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recalled a phrase from a Victorian book on the Language of Flowers. 

"Solitude," I announced out loud to no one in particular. "The lavender flower of the heather symbolises solitude. Then solitude, it shall be."

Almost as if in a dream, I found myself clambering to my feet and making my way back towards the festival. What a sight I must have been, my feet bare, my face streaked with dirt, purple flowers twisted into my uncombed hair. People were staring at me, quickly getting out of my way, the crowd parting slightly as I made my way towards the stage.

"Where the hell have you been? We're on in ten minutes!" screamed a blue-haired banshee as she ran by. It took a few moments for me to register her as Emma.

"Kate! Jesus fucking Christ!" exclaimed Beth. "We thought we were going to have to cancel the gig!"

Looking at her from under my matted fringe, I shot her such a wary look that she quickly stepped back. "I have never missed a gig yet, no matter what," I intoned quietly in a voice that barely sounded like my own.

Through sheer force of will, I managed to make it through the performance on autopilot. None of it seemed real, not the thousands of people in front of us, waving their hands like a field of wheat, roaring dully in the background. Even the tremendously loud throb of the sample track in the monitors seemed muted, as if I was hearing everything from the bottom of a long well. I played my bass mechanically, without hearing it, barely caring if I hit the right notes or not, sliding my fingers up and down the fretboard with unfeeling mechanical precision.

Without waiting for the last note to stop ringing, I put the bass down and walked offstage before the end of the final song, as was my habit. But this time, instead of hanging around backstage to schmooze and wait for my bandmates, I started walking. I reached the bus in a few minutes, but it was deserted. I still had a key, so I slipped inside. For a moment I flopped back on a seat, but my eyes slowly drifted up to the top row of bunkbeds. The curtain to the nearest bunk was open, revealing Amy's rucksack discarded by her pillow. In the front pocket of the rucksack, I knew, there was a brown paper enveloped containing the cash we'd made off our T-shirt sales. She kept it from country to country, to pay incidental expenses, provide our Per Diems and make change for the T-shirt stand's float. Amy never left her rucksack unattended, and yet... 

Moving quickly, before anyone else returned to the bus, I was on the bag in a heartbeat. Leaving the Francs and the Deutschmarks and the Guilders, I grabbed the roll of pounds and quickly counted it. Who would ever know it was me? Amy should have known better than to leave the cash just lying around, especially with a raging junkie like Jeremy hanging around. Stuffing the money into my pocket, I re-zipped the bag and stowed it back into her bed. I fled the bus in a hurry, pulling the door closed, but not locking it behind me.

Somehow I managed to bum a lift back to the hotel from a gang of kids too starstruck to ask questions, content to trade a few autographs and my lucky pick for a ride into town.

Taking a deep breath, I stared up at the monolith of a hotel, then strode in, surprised at the strange numbness in my chest. It barely registered surprise that someone had already checked into my room. It was much the same as every other room I'd been in for the past few months, gloom and half light, broken only by the flicker of the television. Static or programs; it never mattered much to Jeremy, as the sound was usually off anyway. I didn't even realise that he was there until the tiny flame of a cigarette lighter flared, illuminating his prone form on the bed.

With lazy, dead reptilian eyes he watched me disinterestedly as I pulled my suitcase off the stand and dug through it for another pair of shoes. "Where the hell have you been?" he finally asked, his voice dry as the withered flesh hanging under the bones of his cheeks.

"It's none of your business," I replied as matter of factly as I could.

"Of course it's my business. I'm your fucking boyfriend."

"Not any more, Jeremy, not any more, remember?" I informed him, my voice flat, dead, emotionless.

"What?!" Finally a sign of life had permeated those dull blue eyes. God, I had once adored those eyes, impossibly blue, stretching forever like his Midwestern skies.

"I'm leaving you, Jeremy," I added with slightly more conviction.

"You're lying. You can't." Jeremy shook his head in disbelief, but the denial faded as I zipped my bag and headed for the door without even casting a glance back at him. "But... I love you, Kate!" he insisted.

"No you don't," I dismissed. "You don't love me, you don't love anything. You don't love yourself, you don't love your music, I don't even think you love your fucking drugs."

He stared at me in horror. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck as I stopped, staring up at the ceiling, staring resolutely at the door, anywhere except at his ruined face. "If you go, I'll kill myself," he threatened, grasping for anything to make me stay.

"You know what, Jeremy - you do that. I don't care any more."

"I will!" he insisted with more vitriol. "I'll kill myself, and it'll all be on your head."

"So do it!" I shot back. "If you're stupid enough to think that that could stop me, then it's on nobody's head but your own." Without a backwards glance, I dashed out the door, slamming it behind me, running for the elevator, barely stopping to breathe until I was outside, staring at the taxi rank. Climbing into the first available one, I clung to my suitcase as if it were my life-raft.

"Where to, love?" asked the driver jauntily.

Damn; I hadn't thought of that. But strangely enough, I heard my voice answer. "Mull."

"Where?" The driver turned around, cupping his hand over his ear as if straining to understand the unfamiliar accent.

"Mull. It's an island off the Western Coast of Scotland."

"I know where it is, duck, but I can't take you there..."

Digging in my pocket, I located a bundle of notes, peeled off a fifty, then handed it to him. "I'll give you another fifty if you can get me there by morning."

He stared at the money, then back at me. In my outlandish stage gear, with my wild hair still tangled with flowers, I must have looked a sight. "What sort of trouble are you in? Drugs?"

"And another if you don't ask me any questions, and the moment I'm out of this cab you forget you ever saw me."

Shaking his head, he turned the meter off and pulled away from the curb. "That's more than I'd make in a day of driving," he observed wryly, then switched on the radio. "Whatever you're into, it must be bad, so I'm best not knowing."

Settling back in the back seat, I stared out into the night sky, counting the stars to try to get to sleep. The Hubbell Space Telescope popped into my head at times like these, peering out into space, trying to count the numberless galaxies, out there in the dark spaces between the stars. Somehow, the idea reassured me, that invisible eye circling above the clouds, photographing and naming every unknown ball of dust and particles in the unknown universe. No matter how great the distance between the stars, the Hubbell Space Telescope could see them all. Slumping back against the window, I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion.

Some time later, without realising that I had fallen asleep, I awoke with a start, all the hairs along the back of my neck standing on end. Despite the loneliness of the highway through the barren moors, I had the distinct impression that we were not alone. In the background, I could hear the radio still droning softly - that must have been what woke me. The music was so familiar, the sound of that voice shooting through me like an aching pain.

" _And I've been waiting my whole life for just one kiss..._ " Jeremy's disembodied voice floated eerily through the cab. " _I knew that when you held me close it would feel just like this..._ " I wanted to scream at the cabby, to tell him to shut it off, but my voice seemed powerless. 

Memories flooded back; Jeremy sitting with a battered acoustic guitar, surrounded by the untidy wreckage of that apartment on Bleecker Street, smiling up at me as he fingered the chords and sang the lyrics he'd written for me. In the intervening months, the Rocket Pops had recorded it, and released it as a teaser for their second album, and the song had bobbed up into the charts while we'd been gobbling drugs in Japan. But it didn't sound quite right, the lyrics were slurred, whispered - the cabby must be singing along with it. The feeling that I was not alone gripped me as I glanced off to my side. Somehow, I was not surprised when I saw him. Slumped against the other corner of the back seat was a familiar figure, bright cherry red hair falling into sparklingly mischevious eyes. No, I was dreaming - Jeremy's hair hadn't been dyed in months. His cheeks were so thin that the bones showed through, not cherubic like that. Shaking my head, I blinked, but he did not vanish, mouthing along with the words. Slowly, cautiously, I edged away from him, whimpering slightly. Distracted by the noise, the cabby's eyes darted towards the rear view mirror and flitted away. Then suddenly, his face spun round in a massive double take, and the car skidded across the road.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he swore, pulling off his cap as he tried to regain control of the car. We swerved around 180 degrees, then came to rest on the shoulder of the opposite side of the road, facing back towards England.

By the time I looked back towards the corner of the cab, it was empty again. "What? What's the matter?"

"I thought... I thought I saw..." he stuttered, crossing himself quickly.

"What?" I demanded desperately. "What did you see?"

"I don't know." The huge burly man was clearly shaken, but he steadied himself enough to start the car again, and turn it around, driving towards Scotland again. "I thought for a moment, that... you weren't alone back there."

I was shaking, my entire body lightly covered with a cold sweat. "What did it look like?" I probed.

"A man. I didn't see anything else. No, it was just the light playing tricks on my eyes. Sometimes the reflections of the headlights look a bit odd," he observed, crossing himself again just in case. I breathed a sigh of relief, writing it off to the lateness of the hour, trying not to look back at the other side of the seat. "Red hair," he suddenly added thoughtfully. "He had bright red hair."

I shuddered. "Do you mind if I sit up front with you?"

"Of course not, love. Wouldn't mind the company one bit. I'll stop at the next lay-by." Without bothering to wait, I immediately clambered over the back of the seat and settled in next to him. "Or whatever you fancy," he laughed.

After a few miles of silence, I finally fell asleep again, soothed by the throbbing drone of the engine. When I awoke, the cabby was shaking me gently. "We're at the ferry to Mull," he told me. "Do you want to get out and stretch your legs? The sun's just coming up..."

Wrapping my coat around me tightly, I clambered out of the cab and huddled against the railing, watching the mainland slide out of sight as we headed into the misty ocean. As he paced back and forth from one end of the tiny ferry to the other, my trusty cabbie suddenly blanched, turning very pale and crossing himself again. "What?" I asked innocently, then followed his gaze across to a tabloid newspaper. There, in solid black type blazed the headline "AMERICAN POP STAR FOUND DEAD IN LEEDS HOTEL ROOM - suspected Heroin overdose. Jeremy Kane, 1970-1997."

He was shaking quite visibly. "It's him. That was no reflection of headlights. That was a fetch I saw." Sinking down to a sitting position, I stared at the headline while the cabbie wandered over to buy the paper. When he returned, he pointed at the photo on the cover. "That's you next to him, isn't it?" Of all the photos they could have chosen, they had to pick that one of us in the restaurant in Japan. 

Grabbing it away from him, I read hurriedly. "Girlfriend Kate Gordon wanted for questioning... my god, he was alive when I left him... I swear to god, he was alive when I left him."

Glancing around to make sure no one had noticed us, the cabbie steered me back towards the cab. "I believe you, duck."

"He said he'd kill himself if I left him..." I sobbed, unable to keep it stopped up inside me. "I never thought he'd actually do it. God, that fucking bastard..." I cursed, staring down at the paper. I simply didn't believe it. He didn't have the guts!

"That's no way to speak of the dead, love, whether he was a bastard or not." He shook his head, turning over the engine as the ferry docked. "I knew I recognised you from somewhere. I got a daughter, 14 years old, at home, with posters of them all over her walls. You, as well. I think she wants to be like you when she grows up," he chuckled, his earlier fear forgotten. "Just wait till I tell her..."

I stared at him in horror. "You promised you wouldn't tell!"

"Just me daughter, I swear. She'd get such a thrill."

For a moment, I stared daggers at him, then relented. digging in my bag and finally pulling out my objective, a faded Rocket Pops T-shirt. "Well, give her this, then. It was Jeremy's." He stared at it, reluctant to take it. "Go on, it's clean. Just a bit wrinkled." I urged.

"You sure you don't want it - you know, to remember him by?"

"I don't want to remember him," I spat, staring resolutely out the window. "I was leaving him. I couldn't take it any more, the fucking drugs. He was no longer the man I knew. It was like he wasn't even there any more. He said if I left he would kill himself. How was I supposed to know he'd actually do it? That's not my fault, is it?" I sobbed.

"No, miss, that's not right. Oh, don't cry. No, that wasn't right of him," he assured me, offering me tissues, but I hardened myself, refusing to shed any more tears for him.

He drove me across to the other end of Mull, seemingly reluctant to let me go, now that he knew who I was, but when the ferry finally came over from Iona, disgorging its cargo of farmers and the occasional dog, I stepped onto it with barely a backwards glance. Disturbed by the strange gazes my outlandish stage gear was attracting, I resolved to change as soon as I reached the hotel, then realised that in a tiny community like this, it was probably simply the fact that I was a stranger that drew the looks.

Making my way over to the small row of cottages clustered round the tiny harbour, I headed toward the large one in the centre, which appeared to be both hotel and pub, praying that they had a room for me.

"Ooh, you're in luck," chattered the overly friendly innkeeper's wife. "End of the tourist season - you've got the place practically to yourself. Which do you want? Facing the mountain, or facing the harbour?"

"The harbour, please," I heard my voice reply, sounding very tiny and very far away.

"Right then, room 11, up the stairs and down the hall to the left. Do you need some help with your bags? I'll get the boys..."

"No, I'm fine," I assured her. "I've had a long journey, I just want to have a wash and lie down."

"There's a sink in your room. Bathroom at the end of the hall," she called after me as I headed up the stairs. "Let me know if you need more towels..."

Barely noticing the room, I finally rinsed the mud off my face, delighting in the slippery sensation of the soap against my skin. A vague lavender scent filled my nostrils - Yardley of London, the soap proudly proclaimed. What a lovely touch, I thought to myself, towelling myself off and peeling off my filthy dress before sinking into the welcome relief of the clean white sheets.


	16. No Distance Left To Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate has run away to the ends of the earth, washing up on a remote island off the coast of Scotland. Is there anyone from her old life who can find her, reach her, and pull her back to some kind of normality?

I awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight on my cheek, reassuringly warm, like the gentle touch of a neglected lover. For a blissful eternity, I lay there revelling in the feeling, neither knowing nor caring where I was. It had been so long since I had experienced this simple pleasure - in the sick junk withdrawal state that Jeremy usually awoke, he couldn't stand the sight of bright light. Jeremy... slowly the memory came seeping back, stark and plain and ugly in the morning light. Jeremy was dead. I had finally scraped up the courage to walk out on him, and he'd finally scraped up the courage to kill himself. He'd threatened it for months now - when had I stopped believing him?

Sitting up, I stared out the leaded window at the tiny harbour, dotted with grey boats. The sun was sparkling off the breakers, sending multicoloured shards of light across my room. Buoyed up by the simple beauty of the morning, I felt my heart lifting with a forgotten elation that had nothing to do with chemicals or men or anything artificial - this was the pure and simple joy of opening my eyes and greeting another day. For the first time in weeks, I woke up without that wretched churning in the pit of my stomach. How long had it been since I just sat like this, utterly quiet and still, content to be alone? Taking a deep breath, I climbed off the high antique bed and padded to the window, throwing it open and delighting in the smell of the sea. The aching disquiet that had been dogging me for months was ebbing away, replaced by calm.

Searching my soul for some shred of grief over Jeremy, I could find only a soaring sense of freedom. Perhaps grief would come in time, no doubt when I least expected it. But for now, I felt neither joy nor sorrow.

After a long, leisurely soak in the cast iron tub with its fanciful lion's feet, I dressed and sat down to comb out my hair, but after weeks of neglect, the snarls at the back had matted into intractable dreadlocks. For a moment, I sat staring at my wild-eyed reflection, then my gaze was caught by a pair of scissors lying out on the dresser. Without thinking what I was doing, I caught hold of my hair and cut off the offending hunk, letting the golden curls slip down to the floor with a satisfying snip. No longer caring what I looked like, I started to hack away at it, feeling the worries of my old life falling away with the blonde rope.

When I was finished, I stared at the stranger in the mirror, realising that the catharsis had the unforeseen advantage of rendering me unrecognisable. The wild-eyed girl with the piles of hair was gone, and in her place sat a fresh and boyish looking stranger.

After nearly an hour, my attempts at styling were interrupted by a loud growling noise emanating from my belly. In the whirling confusion of the past day, I had simply forgotten to eat, but now my stomach was too loud to ignore, so I ventured downstairs in search of food.

When I inquired at the front desk, I was greeted with a clucking tongue and shaking head. "Breakfast? That was ages ago, dear. Lunch is over - and it's hours yet till supper." Seeing my mournful expression at this news, she relented somewhat. "No worries, dear. Come on into the pub and I'll see what I can find you. Cuppa tea?"

"That would be lovely..." Perched at the edge of the bar, I sipped my tea while she found me some bread and a pickled egg which I mashed into a sandwich. 

"And good lord, what have you done to your hair, child? It's all uneven and wispy at the back."

"I tried to cut it," I explained, feeling a little like a guilty child.

"Come here, sit down. I'll fix it for you. I used to cut my son's hair when he was a lad," she fussed, fetching a pair of scissors and a pudding bowl from the kitchen. "Now keep still..." Placing the bowl on top of my head, she snipped all the ragged bits that hung down below with the practised eye of a mother. "There you go. Much better!" she pronounced as she finally picked the bowl off my head and dusted the remaining pieces of hair from my neck.

Blinking, I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the bar. With an eerie shudder, I realised it was practically Jeremy's haircut. Or, reaching back through the mists of time, Tristram's or Alex's or any of the other men I'd dated over the years. Placing my hand over my mouth, I repressed a quiet giggle. Perhaps it had been the haircut I'd been in love with all along, and not the men underneath.

Turning back to the woman, I thanked her profusely, then curiously asked, "You don't have a map of the island, do you?"

Shaking her head, she studied me with compassionate pity in her glance. "The island's five miles long and two miles wide. What would we need a map for? The abbey is that way, the ruins are that way, and that big hill in the middle is Ben Dougall. If it's a walk you want, the ruins are lovely to visit on a sunny day like this."

Thanking her profusely, I set out up the road, in the direction of the ruins, curious to see the final resting place of all the prehistoric kings of Scotland. Wandering among the great stones, I laid my hand against the carvings, tracing the runes and the Pictish ogham with my fingers. Even though I could make out the letters, the language was strange and wild, rolling off my tongue like a magic spell.

Caught up in a sudden burst of energy, I squinted up at the greyish green mound of the hill the proprietress had called Ben Dougall, then dashed off up its gentle slope, skipping and turning somersaults with glee. Tramping about the island, I turned away from the abbey and the village, avoiding all signs of life except for the occasional surprised sheep. Without anyone to tell me I was late for a plane or a gig or a soundcheck, I spent hours studying a peculiar outcropping of rock or leaning lazily against a stunted furze bush. If I felt like picking daisies, I stopped and picked daisies, looping them into a chain and hanging them around my neck, then dashed shrieking along a deserted cove of pebbly beach, scaring off a flock of puffins.

Standing on top of a cliff at the southern tip of the island, I saw my entire life stretching out before me like the miles of ocean culminating in the steady stream of fluffy white breakers washing at my feet. To hell with the rest of the world, I would be content to build a cottage right here, sink my roots into the soil and spend the rest of days gazing out at the ever changing ocean.

The days dragged on blissfully. After the hectic non-stop 24-hour whirlwind of touring that my life had been, the sleepy pace of the tiny village was a welcome relief. The luxury of having hours at a time during which I was my own master, coming and going as I pleased, was almost voluptuous. Every hour hung heavy and ripe, every second bursting with promise. The first few days, I was too shattered to really take much notice of anything, but as time wore on, every mundane activity took on a welcome significance. Each morning, I would make a point of rising with the dawn to watch the fishing boats setting off from the tiny harbour. I would pad downstairs for breakfast, pack a sandwich and a thermos of tea for lunch, and just wander aimlessly for the rest of the day.

On about the fifth or sixth day  - I had given up needing or even trying to keep count  - I set out fairly late in the day, heading up towards the abbey to lie in the graveyard and listen to the chanting of monks filtering through the open windows. I ate my lunch among the old kings of Scotland, then on a whim, headed back to the village to fetch a notepad from the hotel to draw sketches. With a skip to my step, I was singing one of the old Celtic airs I had learned at the Abbey as I breezed in the door of the hotel, calling out my greeting to the proprietress.

But rather than the usual nodding acknowledgement, she peered at me curiously from under her glasses. "Someone here to see you, Miss," she informed me, gesturing with her head towards the pub.

My mind reeled, fearing the worst. The police? "Who is it?" I asked, trying to keep the waver out of my voice.

"Nice young man," she replied rather distractedly. "Good looking fellow. Very anxious to see you." She paused and looked up at me from her knitting. "Well, go on, then. He's been waiting for you nearly an hour!"

Padding quietly into the bar, I saw a familiar fringe of dark hair nursing a glass of whiskey at the bar. "Alex..."

At the sound of my voice, he looked up and smiled his radiant grin, then caught himself quickly, as several conflicting emotions vied for expression. "I know I'm probably the last person in the world you want to see right now..." he ventured cautiously, measuring me with his eyes.

"How the hell did you find me?"

He shrugged. "A wild guess. A long time ago, in a dive bar somewhere in America, we had this long conversation about where we'd go if we wanted to retire. You told me about this tiny island called Iona off the coast of Scotland. They only had one hotel listed - I called and the woman said you were here. I didn't leave a message cause I was afraid you'd leave if you knew I was coming."

"Oh, Alex, always a rational explanation for everything," I sneered condescendingly.

"I was so scared that you were dead!" he blurted out, digging in his jacket pocket for his pacifying cigarette. "You know about Jeremy?" I nodded slowly, without speaking. "Oh god, I was so..." He was trying to pick his words so carefully now. "So worried about you. I got scared... scared that you might have... you know... done something stupid, too. I know we didn't exactly part on the best terms..."

"We never do, do we?"

"I suppose not." Without taking his eyes off me, he took a long draw off his cigarette.

Although I was tempted to throw back 'well, you've seen me now, I'm not dead, now fuck off,' I kept silent, staring at him, reacquainting myself with the curve of his cheek, the set of his jaw, the strands of dark hair that refused to stay out of his eyes. Tearing my eyes away from his face, my eyes rested on his long, elegant fingers, wrapped tightly around the security blanket of his cigarette. After everything that had transpired between us in the past few months, how could I still feel anything toward him? No matter how hard I tried to keep them down, memories welled to the surface. Those hours and hours of endless debates in every seedy bar across the states... sitting in his living room over several bottles of wine, looking at old photos... rambling, drunken political debates...

"You've changed your hair," observed Alex, finally breaking the silence. "I like it."

Suddenly, a mad idea flickered across my mind. Grabbing him by the hand, I pulled him to his feet. "Come on..."

"Where are we going?" he asked, puzzledly.

"You'll see. Come on..." Pulling him out of the inn, I dashed along the now familiar path towards the old ruins, forcing him to break into a trot to keep up. When we reached the old bone-yard, I stopped, letting go of his hand. For a few moments, he stood there, blinking in confusion, then his curiosity got the better of him, and he started to poke around the old carvings, sticking his quizzical nose into everything.

As he traced the old inscriptions with his fingers, his face lit up. "Rex Picti... that's Latin, that is," he asserted with a wink. "King of the Picts." Like a child pursuing a game, he clambered over to the next grave. "Iain Hamish... Mac-An - Fhleister... now there's a good Gaelic name for you!" Inquisitively, he found the next one, utterly entranced by the intricate carving on the headstone. After examining one, then another, then another, in rapid succession, he turned back to me with a delighted grin. "These are all the ancient kings of Scotland, aren't they? The Lords of the Isles. I read about this place, somewhere, a long time ago..."

"No you didn't. I told you about it," I corrected him with a smile.

"Cor... it's astoundingly beautiful here. Now I understand why you love it so much." Lighting another cigarette, he absent mindedly fingered the epitaph of some medieval monarch. It was his insatiable curiosity that I loved so dearly, his never ending need to know everything, to learn everything.

"Alex..."

He looked up, startled from his investigation of another tombstone. "Hmm?"

I shook my head. "Nothing." There was too much to say, really. Where could I even start? Every inch of my being longed to stand up and embrace him, take him in my arms and hold him close, pressing my body against him, but I said nothing, watching him quietly as he discovered the secrets of my beloved monarchs. He concentrated intensely on the tombstones and I concentrated intensely on him, trying to memorise his every movement. His long, elegantly lanky limbs were somehow awkwardly graceful, as if he had grown too fast into his body and never quite got used to it.

"Alex..." Lifting his head, he flashed his little boy grin, expectant yet delighted. "What's Pi?" I asked urgently, not quite sure why I was asking, but imbuing some incredible importance to his answer.

Without batting an eyelash, Alex asked, "Pi the number, or Pie the dinner?"

"The number. Do you know what it is?"

He scratched his head, staring at me strangely, as if trying to gauge my motivation. Then, perhaps guessing the significance of the question, or perhaps in spite of it, he laughed as if it were a party game. "3.14159... 2... 6, I believe."

"Very good!" I assented with a giggle.

"Is this a game?" Loping over, he sat down opposite me and stared at me curiously. "My turn."

"Shoot," I challenged, grinning.

"The solar system," he intoned. "In order!"

"Easy!" I snorted. "Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, the asteroid belt, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto, except Pluto's orbit is elliptical, so sometimes it passes inside Neptune's."

Alex clapped slowly, obviously impressed. "Your turn. I like this game."

"The periodic table."

"What, all of it?"

"As far as you can get," I dared.

The cigarettes came out for this one. "Let's see... Hydrogen, helium, erm... lithium? Boron? Sodium?" Shaking my head, I burst out laughing. "Right then, let's see you do it, then."

With a smug, self satisfied smirk, I began to chant "Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium..."

"OK, OK," Alex laughed, placing his hands over his ears. "You're proved your point..." The sun sparkled in his eyes as he looked up at me, more beautiful at that moment that I had ever seen a man look in my entire life. If I didn't reach out and brush my hand against his cheek, I would either burst out crying or laughing - I could never quite be sure which. A tangible pain shot through my chest and I turned away to hide the anguish twisting across my face.

Abruptly standing up, I turned and took off as fast as my legs could carry me, headed resolutely back towards the village, my feet pounding against the gravel of the unpaved road.

"Kate, Kate! Wait!" panted Alex, breaking into a trot to catch up with me. "Whatever I said I'm sorry..."

Shaking my head, I blinked back the tears. "You didn't say anything," I assured him.

He grasped for words. "Oh god, of course... you're grieving for Jeremy... you must have loved him terribly..."

I stopped in my tracks, twisting my face into a knot in an attempt to stop the tears. "I never loved Jeremy, OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? I feel nothing towards him except a vague sense of sadness that the poor stupid fucker felt that he had to kill himself to prove something that I wasn't going to hear anyway.... Other than that, I feel nothing. Do you understand? Nothing! I don't love him and I never did! Jeremy Kane died for pop music, Jeremy Kane died for 16 year old malcontents everywhere, Jeremy Kane died for MTV, but Jeremy Kane did not die for me, OK?"

Conflicting emotions flickered across Alex's face, too fast for me to even try to interpret. "But I thought..." he stuttered, then gave up that line of thought, latching onto another. "Then what was he to you... why?"

"Jeremy was only ever a surrogate. Jeremy was only ever the consolation prize. I know it sounds callous to speak about him this way, now, but... god, I've been bottling it up for so long." I confessed, my lip quivering. "It was a role I fell into too easily. I was... I don't know. I was flattered by the attention. I was so confused and disoriented when I got back from that tour with you. For weeks, we were together twenty four hours a day, and then suddenly you were gone. Especially the way you... after we... we..." I was completely at a loss for words.

"After we kissed?" Alex suggested, his dark eyes troubled and cloudy. His face was too near mine for comfort, yet too far to bridge the distance.

"You said it didn't mean anything, but it _did_ , you have no way of knowing how much it did." As I swung around petulantly, Alex's eyes grew wide with fear. My thoughts were confused, my words jumbled, but I knew I could never turn back now, only push it onwards to its inevitable conclusion, whichever end that turned out to be. "Alex, do you remember how we promised we'd never pretend to be anything other than ourselves around each other?"

He sighed deeply, then answered through gritted teeth. "I remember it clearly."

"Well, I haven't been true to it. I can't go on like this... I can't go on pretending that..." I had to spit it out before my voice failed me. "Pretending that I don't love you!"

Alex exhaled sharply, his voice quivering. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It was just a harmless crush at first, you knew that. But slowly, it turned into something else."

He eyed me with that wary look. "When?"

"What do you want? An exact date and time?"

Alex glanced around him desperately, his lovely features twisted into a mask of agony. Never in my life had I actually seen him at a loss for words. This was it, the end of it all. Why the hell had I ever opened my mouth, why was I ruining the closest friendship I'd ever had over a few lustful impulses? No, it was more than simple lust, more than some pure platonic love; I didn't know what to call it any more.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed desperately, turning away, covering my face with my hands so he couldn't see the tears brimming up. "I should never have said a damn thing, I should have kept my big mouth shut... I never know when to keep things to myself..." Taking my face in his big hands, he pulled my gaze back to his, his eyes more serious and searching than I had ever seen them. "Let me talk, let me just finish, then you can either say whatever it is you want to say, or you can just leave, and you never ever have to even speak to me again. I have felt this way since the end of our second tour of England. You were acting so strangely after you found out I was seeing Tristram - almost like you were jealous."

"I _was_ jealous. I was hideously, spitefully jealous." He paused, afraid to even look at me. "And I still am," he admitted so softly that I barely heard him.

"We were so angry at one another, I wanted to tell you to piss off, to get the hell out of my life. But we just sat down and started to talk... We talked all night and most of the next day..."

Alex nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up in a faint nostalgic smile at the memory of the evening. "I know. I remember. I told you things about myself I've never told anyone before in my life. I had never felt so comfortable talking to anyone - I just didn't want you to leave. I kept making more and more excuses for you to stay until you fell asleep on my sofa. And I... I..." he shook his head, laughing at the memory. "I sat and watched you sleep for nearly an hour." I stared at him, somewhat taken aback. "You sleep with your hands folded up under your chin. Like this... It's entrancingly sweet." he confessed, blushing slightly.

"Ever since that day, I knew..." I ventured, but he cut me off, placing his finger over my mouth.

"You don't have to say another word. I know. I... I felt... I still feel exactly the same way." The words hung in the air for a long time, slowly sinking into my consciousness. Mistaking my silence for unhappiness, Alex turned away. "Do you still want me to leave?" Pulling away and surveying me from a safe distance, Alex pulled out another cigarette and sucked like a tiny child with a bottle. But now his eyes were transparent, the hope mixed with an unmistakable doubt, a dreadful fear that all this was some fleeting illusion, some rebound mistake brought on through grief and substitution for Jeremy.

"No, Alex. You've got it so backwards. It's always been you. I know it sounds callous and heartless now, but this is like that bastard's final revenge. That's what he wanted everyone to think, that I've gone to pieces - cause he couldn't stand the idea that I was stronger than he was. I didn't run away because he killed himself. He killed himself cause I finally pulled together the courage to walk out on him."

Alex simply stood there, blinking in the twilight, unwilling or unable to comprehend. "You shouldn't be alone at a time like this. I'll get a room at the hotel."

Good old Alex, trying desperately to maintain that English air of being sensible and rational as ever. "You don't have to get your own room." He stared at me stupidly, with a totally wilful lack of understanding. "Stay with me... please..." Moving closer, I reached out, gently touching his hand. "As my lover." When he offered no resistance, I threaded my fingers through his, and we walked on, gingerly holding hands. Without another word, we strolled back to the hotel, gently running our fingers over each others' knuckles, as I insistently searched every inch of the skin on his hands with my fingertips. Silently, I practically dragged him up the stairs, afraid to let go of him for a second for fear that he would turn around and run.

Pulling him into my room, I shut the door behind us, then stood for a moment, searching his face as I encircled his waist with my arms, trying to read the emotions that settled then nervously flew away. Concern, desire, fear, though fear of what, I couldn't tell. Reaching up, I twined my fingers in the thick dark thatch of his hair and brought his face towards mine. Cautiously, we nibbled at each others' lips, barely daring to penetrate further. Slipping my hands down the back of his shirt collar, I flicked my tongue into his mouth, teasing gently, like a snake tasting the air. He tried to come after me, tried to suck me into his mouth, but I darted away. Finally, he seized chunks of my hair with both hands, holding my head in place as he parted my lips with his tongue and pushed his way inside. His mouth was firm and moist, yet slightly yielding, like a perfectly ripe fruit. No longer afraid to touch him, I ran my fingers over his face, cupping his perfect cheekbones in my hands, then pushing back the tendrils of dark hair that fell into my eyes. Barely pausing to breathe, I kissed his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead.

He smiled, his eyes dreamy and moist. "Are we really going to..." he ventured, as if afraid that even mentioning the word would cause the entire thing to shimmer and vanish like a mirage.

"It's been a long time coming," I assured him, moving my mouth lower, snaking my tongue along the lobe of his ear, then nibbling down his neck.

"Besides, everyone thinks we already have," he agreed, giggling slightly as his head lolled to one side and his hands slid down my back. He smiled, a wicked gleam coming into his eyes as his searching hands came to rest on my arse. With a slight moan, he pulled my body against his, grinding his hips rhythmically. His hands were pushing my dress out of the way, tugging at it insistently until I wriggled slightly and he pulled it up over my head in one fluid motion. Pulling back, he tilted his head as if studying my body, then pushed me back onto the bed, crawling on top of me to kiss my soft white belly. I clawed at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head, but we were hopelessly tangled. Gently at first, then demandingly, I pulled at his jeans, unbuckling his belt and struggling with the zipper. Climbing off me and rolling onto his back, he kicked off his shoes and slid his trousers off his hips.

"Ha, ha! Now I've got you!" I declared, pouncing on top of him and pinning him down by the wrists. A surprised but amused expression glazed his features, but he did not protest as I tugged off his black silk boxer shorts. His chest was thin, but wiry, with dark aureoles surrounding tiny pink nipples. Straddling him with my knees, I bent over him to flick my tongue over them until they stood to attention. His breathing grew shallow, his skin rising into tiny goose bumps despite the light sweat dusting his chest. With tiny circular motions, I started to lick the salty moisture from his flesh. 

He watched, fascinated, as I moved back and forth across his chest, then lower, criss-crossing his stomach and circling his navel. Letting go of his wrists, I moved lower, across that incredibly ticklish valley where his leg joined his hip, torturously evading the patch of dark hair that dusted his groin, not even daring to look at the balls nestled between his legs or the penis rapidly stirring to life. Down his leg, I continued with broad swathes of my tongue, spiralling around his knobbly knee, then twisting around to catch that heady scent behind his knee.

Alex raised himself on his elbows to watch curiously as I worked down his shin, seized his sock in my teeth and wrestled viciously with it until it slid off. Taking each toe into my mouth in turn, I sucked them gently, running my tongue down the deep crevasses between them before moving on to his other foot. He cocked his head to one side, observing me carefully, a smile of placid contentment dusted across his lips. "You know what? I've figured it out..."

"What?" I asked, raising my head.

"Don't stop..." he exhorted, and I returned my attention to his toes, so delightfully long, they were almost like another set of fingers. "What you remind me of. You're just like a cat." Playfully, I started to purr, rubbing my head affectionately against his shins. "Stop it! I'm serious. You're exactly like a cat. Fiercely independent, but you demand affection when you want it, and only on your terms." Raising my head, I stopped and stared at him, but he held out his hand and started to run his fingers through my hair. I blinked slowly, leaning into his hand, then slowly resumed my progress up his other leg, sliding up the inside of his thigh. His breath grew sharp and shallow as I grew closer, breathing in deeply the thick musky scent of his pheromones. 

He inhaled sharply as my cheek accidentally brushed against his penis, holding his breath as I extended a tentative tongue, then letting it go in a long whistle as I gingerly took first one, then both of his testicles into my mouth. He yelped slightly as my teeth brushed carelessly against the sensitive skin, and I was about to let go when he tangled his fingers in my hair and held me there. 

"Don't you dare stop," he hissed, feeling for my arms with his free hand, pulling them towards his penis, forcibly wrapping my fingers around his shaft until I got the idea. Measuring my breaths, I timed my strokes with the heartbeat I could feel pulsing just beneath his skin. As he relaxed his hold on my hair, I shifted my head, slowly releasing his balls from my mouth, then running my tongue along the underside of his penis, up towards his head, teasing him by running my tongue around it a few times. I would take just his head into my mouth, close my lips around it for a second, then pull back torturously slowly, curling my lips back just enough to let him feel the edge of my teeth as I released him. He tried to catch my head and hold it, but I darted away too quickly for him, seizing his hands and pinning them by his sides. 

Only when I was truly satisfied with the pleading expression on his face did I bend my face back towards his jutting penis, wrapping my mouth around him, then sliding back up, reaching further every time until I could feel him hitting the back of my throat. Strange boy; he actually seemed to like it when I grew careless and let my teeth scrape against him for a precarious moment, moaning distinctly and arching his back, lifting his hips off the bed to thrust himself more deeply into my mouth. 

Locked in the moment, I forgot everything except the organ in my mouth, the balance between control and submission, forgetting even who it was thrashing beneath me. The ultimate gesture of servility, of taking a man's most prized possession into my mouth, concentrating only on his pleasure without a thought of my own - yet at that very moment, the roles were reversed, the woman on her knees completely in control, and the man the servant, abject and weak, subject to my every whim, completely at my mercy, whether I chose to send him to ecstasy or tear his flesh with my teeth. It was about more than just sex or control - it was about trust, the flirtation with danger, the implicit threat of violence hiding behind soft lips. Evil thoughts flickered through my head, more akin to savagery than to affection or even lust.

Then something made me look up, made me glance towards Alex's face, perhaps curiosity, or pride in my handiwork. But the expression of pure and perfect transcendent bliss on his face stopped those wild thoughts in their tracks. His head was slightly thrown back, his lips parted, his eyes half closed, long lashes brushing against his cheeks. Sensing a change in my motions, he opened his eyes and stared down at me. There was no one word I could affix to the expression in those deep brown eyes - desire, affection, respect, lust, fondness, trust - but something in that expression pierced me, igniting a tight and burning sensation in my chest so powerful that for a moment, I could not even breathe.

"Come here," he ordered sharply, placing his hands under my arms and pulling me sharply towards him. Surrendering myself completely, I clung to him as he worked his fingers under the waistband of my knickers, pushing them out of the way as he worked his penis between my legs, sliding back and forth between my outer labia without actually penetrating. Unclasping my bra, he pulled my breasts free, rubbing them against his face, seizing my nipple between his teeth and undulating his tongue back and forth. I wanted him so badly that every nerve in my body seemed pointed towards the head of his penis, trying to seize him forcibly and swallow him, but he teased me mercilessly, sliding inside for a second, then pulling out again so quickly I barely had time to catch my breath. He was laughing, kissing me playfully, but I grabbed a hold of his tongue, sucking it into my mouth with an insistence that seemed to surprise him. "So you want it that badly?" I nodded, panting, unable to speak. "How? Tell me how..."

My mind reeled at the simplicity of the question, amazed that he had bothered to ask. It was completely unfair to compare lovers, but Jeremy had been so naive that he always simply expected me to take the lead, while it had never even dawned on Tristram that sex was something that women actually enjoyed, rather than a chore they performed to satisfy men. Dozens of possibilities flashed through my head, simple, complex, physically impossible, tangles of arms and legs dreamed up by my unruly libido.

"Ooh, I like that smile. You must be thinking something positively filthy," observed Alex with a cheeky leer, pushing his fingers down the crack of my arse, pressing himself against me with the flat of his palm. I moaned slightly, catching my breath. "Oh, you like that?"

"Yeah..." I exhaled, then shook my head. "Oh, no... on my stomach... that's what I want."

He grinned, rolling me over in one fluid motion, flipping me over. Disoriented for a moment, I lay with my face pressed blindly into the sheet, anticipating his next movement. His hand was between my legs, searching, spreading my lips open. Opening my eyes, I glanced backwards over my shoulder to see him kneeling over me, studying me with that same expression of intense curiosity, obviously very aroused by what he was examining. Suddenly caught in his voyeuristic little thrill, he froze, staring at me guiltily yet unrepentantly, with a precious expression of 'I did something naughty.'

"Don't you dare stop..." I uttered softly, raising an eyebrow back at him in encouragement.

"Close your eyes," he hissed, then resumed his investigation. For a moment, I felt a strange breeze, almost like a deeply drawn breath, then a moist sensation that could have been a tentative taste, then the indescribable friction as he slid inside and his full weight on top of me. My hips were pinned against the mattress. I could not move, powerless as he slid his hands underneath me, coming to rest on my pubic bone. "Mmmm, I can feel your heartbeat through my fingertips," he observed quietly, pressing gently, like a doctor searching for a pulse. As he thrust from behind, he pulled in unison from underneath until the pressure was so intense it was if my entire body was being squeezed in a vice. Giving in to the sensation, I let myself go, completely surrendering myself to the pleasure welling up inside me. Twisting my head around, I searched hungrily for his mouth, biting his lips, sucking at his tongue. I tried to hold back, but the angle was too intense. A few sharp breaths, and it had built to a peak and was washing over me, overwhelming ripples of pleasure flooding my spine and down my legs. I exhaled sharply, panting for air, my head spinning with that dizzy euphoria. Alex was lost to the world, pushing deeper and deeper inside me, bucking wildly. "I'm sorry," he panted. "I can't hold on... turn over!"

"Why?"

Pulling out of me, he seized me by the shoulders and roughly moved me. "I want to see your face when I..." He was inside me again, pushing me up off the bed with the force of his thrusts. His eyes were wide, boring into mine, like a well straight down into the depths of his psyche. In the afterglow of my orgasm, I just wanted to crawl inside those eyes, to make myself a home. Emotions seemed to come flooding through, dredging up from the depths. This was no trick of any drug, this was looking into someone's soul and seeing myself reflected there at the bottom.

"I'm sorry," he panted. "I couldn't stop... you didn't..."

I cut him off. "I did."

He eyed me with suspicious disbelief, then slowly a proud smirk spread over his lips. "You hold your breath, don't you?"

"So do you," I observed, pressing my lips against his.

He kissed me again and again, gently wiping away the tiny silver streams I hadn't even noticed form at the sides of my eyes. "I could just lie here forever... I don't ever want to not be inside you..." he sighed. With a mischevious grin, I gently tightened my muscles around him. "Oi! Watchit! That tickles," he giggled, abruptly pulling out and rolling off me.

"Come back," I pleaded, but he pretended to be aloof, reaching into the trousers he had discarded on the floor for a cigarette. "Oh, Alex, you're such a cliché..."

"Oh, and what about you?" he teased, sitting up and prodding me in the thigh. Slowly, that mischevious leer that meant he was about to say something truly outrageous spread across his face. "Kate, Kate," he beseeched me urgently, tugging on my arm.

"What? Don't even say what I think you're going to say..."

His eyes were wide open in a parody of naiveté. "Kate, I have to know - what do you think happened to the Holy Grail?"

"Ooh! I hate you!" I squealed, seizing my pillow and thrashing him about the head with it. He sniggered madly, dodging my blows to catch me about the waist. "I've got to stop telling your embarrassing secrets while I'm terribly drunk. I always forget that you remember them all."

"Ah, but we haff vays of making you talk," he threatened playfully, starting to tickle me under the ribs.

"Stop, stop, I'll tell you anything," I shrieked, twisting away from him and batting him in the head with the pillow.

We wrestled for several minutes, neither of us getting the upper hand for long, then suddenly, he stopped, very self conscious. "I'm sorry; I can get very silly after sex."

"Why are you apologising? I've missed our stupid pillow fights so much, you know," I confessed, smacking him playfully.

"So have I." He grinned again, raising that one eyebrow suggestively. "Except now there's something I don't have to hide from you any more."

Stupidly, I took the bait. "What?" Drawing back the sheet slightly, he raised his hips as if very pleased with himself, revealing his swollen penis rising questioningly towards me. I shook my head, tentatively reaching out to touch it. "You couldn't!" I insisted, but as if in contradiction of my words, he stiffened to my touch.

"I could..."

~~~*** FIN ***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so endeth the first book of the Charms Universe!
> 
> If you want Kate and Alex to ~live happily ever after~ you should probably leave off reading here, and imagine them just fading into the sunset.
> 
> If you want to know what really happens to Kate and Alex - and also what happens to the rest of The Charms, and indeed, to Slur, check back next week for the start of Book 2... [Death of a Party](http://archiveofourown.org/works/784241).


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